Caught You
by SheriartyForever
Summary: Sheriarty. Moriarty's back, with a case for Sherlock - but things are never that simple. Apologies for wrong chapter order, I deleted one and can't edit it back :(
1. Chapter 2

[FOREWORD: There was a chapter before this but that was just to set the scene and it was boring, so I deleted it. Apologies for the strange chapter order XD  
Hope you enjoy this...]

...

The lock showed no trace of forced entry.

Sunlight glinted off the sign displaying _221B_ as Sherlock swung the front door open, quickly scanning the familiar surroundings. Nothing out of place. He let out a deep breath.

And then he heard it.

A violin's sweet melody drifted from upstairs, hanging lazily in the still air. It took him only a second to identify the tune: Partita No. 5, Johann Sebastian Bach.

His blood turned to ice.

Woodenly, he forced his feet to move, one step at a time, shuffling on the carpeted floor. The music continued, chords stretching lovingly, almost invitingly.

His foot hesitated on the first step.

_You can do this._

He shifted his weight, placing both sweating palms on the wooden railing for support. _Breathe. Breathe. _He swallowed, closed his eyes. _Don't be afraid._

Step. Breathe. Step. _Creak._

The violin – _his_ violin – faltered. His heart leapt to his mouth; his muscles seized up, freezing him into place.

A second later it resumed playing – like he knew it would.

He shook his head sharply, curls bouncing, and made a decision.

_To battle._

Although he'd known full well what awaited him, a shudder still ran through him at the sight that awaited him as he opened the door.

Moriarty stood poised, the violin tucked under his chin, fingers dancing on the strings while his other hand worked the bow in long, sweeping, fierce movements. His back was turned but Sherlock could see his profile: the perfectly sculpted eyebrows, angular nose and plump lips which he suddenly realised he'd long committed to memory. The man's eyes were closed in bliss as the majestic notes thrummed from the instrument – and slowly opened as they died away, acknowledging his enemy's presence.

He lowered the violin, breaking into a teasing grin.

"Ah, Sherlock," he purred. "A pleasure to see you in the flesh again."

The detective's jaw was clenched tight, posture stiff. _This man is your enemy_, he reminded himself. _Don't trust him. Don't ever trust him._

Jim fluidly returned the violin to its case, snapping it shut. "Did you like my little rendition?" he continued, dark eyes flickering over to meet Sherlock's. They bored into him like blackened pits, disconcerting against the alluring smile. "I've had over two years to learn. D'you have any idea how _boring_ it was for me, Sherlock?" He gave an exaggerated cringe. "You couldn't even be bothered to see if I was alive! Tut, tut…" He sighed heavily, shaking his head in mock disapproval – then paused, and let the condescending grin creep across his face again. "Too afraid to find out?"

_I am _not_ afraid_, Sherlock wanted to spit out, but the words died on his lips.

Because Moriarty was back – he was right there in front of him, wearing the same grey suit he'd worn at the trial, dark hair slicked back, darker eyes blinking with the same false innocence. There was no denying it. Not even his singsong tone had changed. It was almost as though the past two years had never happened at all. And Sherlock didn't understand – why he was here, how exactly he'd survived, how to resolve their rift – and above all, how the criminal's reappearance made him feel.

_You hate him,_ his mind repeated, over and over: _You hate him, he's dangerous, unpredictable, unexplainable; he's a murderer. You hate him._

But he could _tell_ the attempts were half-hearted. And that was what confused him the most.

_Focus, focus._ He blinked hard, clenching and unclenching his fists, bringing himself back to face Moriarty's unwaveringly smug features. _Concentrate on the task at hand._

"Wh… why are you here?"

Was that really his voice? So weak and thin and frail? He swallowed again, flexed his fingers. Lifted his chin a little higher. _Stay strong._

Jim took a deep breath, spread his hands, and – for a split second – his smile almost seemed… genuine.

"To thank you, Sherlock."

_Thank me?_ Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, that wasn't it. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. "Thank me… for what?" His speech was sluggish, and he gave himself a mental slap. _Focus._

Moriarty glanced around the room, scanning it, before letting his gaze settle onto where John's chair used to be. "Shame you got rid of that," he drawled, ignoring Sherlock's question. "Quite petty of you, isn't it? All this _moping_ after Johnny-boy." He flicked imaginary dust off his suit sleeve. "I should pay him a visit sometime. The Watsons… they're having a baby, aren't they?" A smirk. "Now _that_ should be interesting."

_Don't you dare go anywhere near John. Don't you dare even look at him. _But all that spilled from his mouth was, "I'm not _moping_."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, darling Sherl. Oh wait, wasn't that what Janine called you?" He laughed, as though reliving an old memory. "That was downright _cruel_, Sherlock, what you did to her! Still, I'm one to talk." Shaking his head, he cleared his throat before taking an elegant step backwards, a dancer before an audience, gesturing to the one remaining armchair. "But where are my manners? Sit."

"What did you mean… _thank_ me?" Sherlock tried again, not moving a muscle.

Jim's eyes flashed dangerously. "Sit down," he repeated, an edge of steel to his voice, "and I might _juuuust_ tell you."

The detective could disobey no more. Frowning, he tried to ignore Moriarty's relentless stare and made his way awkwardly to the armchair, perching stiffly upon it. He kept his hands folded in his lap.

"Thank you!" Jim beamed at him rewardingly, before hopping onto the wooden table to sit there himself. He began to swing his legs in the air as he spoke. "So DIDyou miss me?"

"No," Sherlock replied immediately, despite his mind screaming otherwise.

Jim pouted. "Oh, don't be like that. I'm back, aren't I?" He reached into his suit's inner pocket and carefully plucked out a rose hidden there. With a flick of his hand, he tossed it towards Sherlock; its appearance had startled him and he struggled to catch it. Jim laughed and continued. "I _evaded death_ for you. You don't get much more _romantic _than that."

"You pretended to _cause_ your own death for me in the first place." He found he was stroking the crimson rose petals – and, strangely, let himself continue.

"Are you _arguing _with me, Sherlock?" Moriarty widened his eyes and shot a sudden, fierce glare at his opponent.

Before Sherlock could stutter out a _N-n-no_, the criminal threw his head back and burst into merry laughter. Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Oh, I did miss this!" There were tears in Jim's eyes. "No-one else would _dare_ speak to me the way you do. Oh, Sherlock…" He pursed his lips and took a long, exhilarated breath.

"Look, why _are_ you here?" Sherlock's heart was racing again and he needed this over with. "What do you need to thank me for?"

Moriarty sighed heavily, the smile fading. He glanced around him again, then tutted quietly under his breath. "You had tea last time."

"Last time, I actually _had_ time to prepare it."

"Ah well. Let's just call the landlady." He raised his voice suddenly – "MRS HUDSOOON!"

"Shut up! What are you _doing?!_" Sherlock gasped, hastily calling out, "No, Mrs Hudson, it's – it's fine, ignore us!" His voice reverted to an icy hiss as he glared at his smirking enemy. "Are you _insane?_"

Jim pondered the question for a moment. "Prrr-obably."

"Just…" Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Answer my question."

"I just did."

"The _other _one!"

"'What am I doing'? Well, I'm calling the landlady so we can have some _teeea_." He swung both legs up and down at the same time, childishly.

"I meant–" Sherlock rubbed his temples, soothing his irritation. _You can't piss him off. He's the most dangerous man on the planet._ "I meant,_ why are you here?_"

The leg-swinging stopped. Jim glanced down at his hands. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say the man looked positively… anxious.

"Sherlock…" he began in a low voice, swallowing and looking up – not meeting the detective's gaze. "You and your friends weren't the only ones Magnussen was after."

_What?_

"I'm the king of the criminal empire, Sherlock, what do you expect?" Jim's tone was unexpectedly tender, as he sat glancing at and away from his rival's dumbstruck expression. "Someone like Magnussen would do anything he possibly could to control me."

"But…" Sherlock shook his head disbelievingly. "What could possibly matter enough to you for him to blackmail you with?"

Jim sighed deeply. "Once again, you underestimate us." He met the detective's gaze – and held it. "You have all your 'pressure points', as he and I put it. What makes you think I'm not the same?"

Sherlock fell silent.

"Don't think you're my _only_ enemy," the criminal continued. "You're my favourite, of course, but there are so many others… more ruthless, cold-hearted and _far_ more stupid." He leaned forwards. "And I have secrets they can't ever know."

"What _secrets?_" Sherlock searched his opponent's gaze, but the deep, dark eyes shed no light upon the nature of his soul.

The smile crept back onto Moriarty's face. "Oh, if you're good, I might just tell you."

Sherlock blinked, frowned, looked away: feigning nonchalance. Jim smirked and drew backwards, dangling his feet.

"So my… _removal_ of Magnussen enabled your return?"

"It eliminated one of the main problems." The sombre expression returned; the feet stilled. "So… thank you, Sherlock." He blinked, voice softening; he looked almost… proud. "I knew you had it in you."

Warmth spread in Sherlock's chest; he swiftly combated it with an icy tone. "I didn't do it for you, James. I did it for Mary." _And for John._

"Doesn't mean I can't thank you." A hard look crept into his eyes. "And you know it's just Jim, not… _James_." As the detective made a move to stand, he swiftly raised a hand to stop him. "No, Sherlock, _please_ stay. You and I aren't done yet."

"What do you mean? I accept your 'thanks'. Now–" His chest squeezed uncomfortably, but he shoved the feeling aside. "–_Leave_."

Jim shook his head with a finality Sherlock couldn't ignore. The detective leaned back in the armchair and sighed, pretending not to notice his pulse spiking.

"Have you got any cases?" Moriarty asked, almost casually.

"Plenty."

"Liar." Now it was the criminal who stood, smoothing out his expensive suit. "You've been too busy worrying about your _imminent deportation and death_. Now John's gone–" Sherlock winced– "and soon you'll be bored out of your mind. But…" He took a step closer. "I can help."

"What, another of your little games?" Sherlock forced boredom into his tone, lifting his chin to stare defiantly at his slowly advancing enemy. "You run around killing people and I chase after you again?"

"No, Sherlock." Moriarty crouched down before the consulting detective, leaving their faces mere inches apart. He placed a hand gently on Sherlock's knee; his shadowy gaze was unflinching. "I want you to solve my case."

The blood began to thump in Sherlock's ears.

"Solve… your case?" he repeated slowly. The hairs prickled at the back of his neck. The hand on his knee was unbearably warm. _Don't think about that. Focus. Focus._

"Yes," Jim breathed, closing his eyes. "I need your help."

The words echoed all over Sherlock's mind.

_I need your help…_

"H-how…" Moriarty's intense gaze as his eyes reopened made him stumble breathlessly mid-sentence. _I need your help_ – what was that supposed to mean? He swallowed hard. _This is a trick. Don't let it get to you. _His hands trembled in his lap, itching to do something – but whether that was to push Jim away or pull him even closer, he didn't know.

"How," he whispered, the words forming at last, "could I possibly help you?"


	2. Chapter 3

Jim stood abruptly and spun around, plucking a smartphone from his inner pocket. His back to Sherlock, he switched it on, flicking rapidly at the screen. After a while, he turned to face him again: apparently he'd found what he'd been searching for.

"Do you remember Alexander Moran?"

An image of the handsome, well-groomed, square-jawed man came to Sherlock's mind. "Lord Moran," he recalled, with some disgust. "Tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. I managed to stop him." _My first case back with John after faking my own death. _Affection at the memory threatened to overwhelm him; he repressed it. _Not now._

"Yes, I let you stop him." Jim paused, blinking at his phone, momentarily lost in thought.

"What about him?" Sherlock coaxed. He couldn't help it, but he felt intrigued. _Why would Moriarty need _my_ help?_

Jim took a deep breath, and looked up at last. "Did you know he has a brother?"

_A brother?_ The detective briefly scanned his mind palace, but found nothing. "No."

"Well, he does." Swallowing hard, Moriarty lifted up his phone for him to see. "His non-identical twin: Sebastian Moran."

On it was a photograph of a man, remarkably similar to his brother – pale, with rigid yet delicate and quietly attractive features. The hair was lighter and more unruly; eyebrows thinner; features less bold. He looked familiar.

"You've met him before." Jim's jaw was clenched hard. "He was my barrister at the trial."

_Oh…_ Sure enough, the memory snapped into place: the face beneath the curly white wig matched that on the screen.

"He was also the sniper I sent to kill John."

Sherlock's voice hardened. "Ah."

"Colonel Sebastian Moran…" Jim sat back down on the table with a sigh. "The best sniper in Her Majesty's Army. A man of remarkable skill."

"Mycroft killed him," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "He disposed of him before he could even shoot John."

Jim looked at him pityingly. "I faked my own death for two years, Sherlock. Do you honestly think I can't even protect my own partner from your silly big brother?"

"_Partner_?" Sherlock caught on, sharply.

"My right-hand man," Jim replied instantly, his glare daring the detective to comment. "And my… _partner_. In every sense."

Sherlock swallowed. _Moriarty had a lover… a male one._ He shook his head quickly – _why should you care?_

"So what happened?" He kept his voice level.

Jim gave a quick, humourless laugh, gaze drifting down and away. "Our relationship was always… rocky. He was a distraction. But not like you." He looked up again. "The sniper and the consulting criminal… we had problems, of course. He was no genius, and I just got bored _sooo_ easily."

"What does any of this have to do with me?" _They were nothing like me and John, then. Well, of course not – this is Moriarty we're talking about. This unfeeling devil._

"His brother had a terrorist plot, as you know." His lip curled into a sneer. "Alexander bloody Moran. Sebby knew, and begged me to help him. With my support there'd be no way he'd fail."

"But you refused?"

"I wanted nothing to do with it." He shook his head with distaste. "Blowing up a national treasure? Now why would _I_ do anything so stupid?"

Sherlock couldn't help but admire the criminal's bizarre morals.

"So I failed to offer my protection," Jim continued. "You came along, and sure enough, Alexander got caught."

"And Sebastian was angry?"

"Obviously. He blamed me entirely." A brief expression of pain flickered across his face. "It had been a… low point in our relationship at the time, I remember. All the arguing… I'd become so _fed up _with him. But that wasn't all." He paused, rubbed a hand on his wrist. "Do you know what happened to Alexander, Sherlock?"

"He was incarcerated." Mycroft had arranged it. "They arrested him in the hotel he'd been staying in. He gained the life sentence, of course." The trial had been a quiet affair, few details being leaked to the public.

"Yes. And three days later, they found him hanging in his cell."

Sherlock couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips.

"It _broke_ Sebastian." Moriarty closed his eyes. "It was the last straw. Pushed him over the edge." A sad little smile. "He swore he would kill me if it was the last thing he did."

The detective couldn't begin to imagine the chaos that must have broken loose. _If someone killed Mycroft_, he realised with a jolt, _maybe I'd be the same – hunt down the murderer, no matter who, no matter the cost. And I'm not even a psychopath's boyfriend anymore._

"I managed to flee," Jim remarked blandly. His uncaring expression had returned – but was that just a mask? "I needed to hide from him until the situation could be figured out."

"Look, what do _I_ have to do with any of this?" Sherlock forced himself to get to the point, although he could have listened all day. All this new knowledge about his arch-nemesis… _fascinated_ him.

Moriarty's lips curved upwards into a wolf-like smile, but his eyes remained haunted. "Oh, you'll see, Sherlock." Running a hand through his slicked hair, he resumed his account.

"You have to understand how _close_ we were." He now sounded almost bored, like he was merely telling a story. "He was my second-in-command, had been with me almost everywhere I went. In some cases, my men trusted _him_ more than _me_."

The second dilemma had begun to click in Sherlock's mind. "So you had nowhere to hide."

"Exactly." Jim gave a small shrug. "No matter where I hid, he would manipulate my agents to find my location. He would assemble a small force and try to catch me by surprise–"

"But what exactly did he plan to do?" _Wouldn't just killing him be too simple?_

"He's gone almost _mad_, Sherlock." Another weary sigh. "He probably intended to use my own agents to kidnap me, drag me to a room somewhere and beat an apology out of me. And I wouldn't give him one, because I'm not sorry, so he'd end his frustrations by shooting me in the head." A quirky half-smile. "_Boringly_ predictable, but Sebby's always been practical."

"I should help him then." Sherlock made himself utter the callous words. "Get rid of you, do Britain a service."

"Oh, shut up. I know you won't." Jim shot him a withering glare. "Like I've told you before: you need me, or you're nothing."

_He's right_, Sherlock's conscience whispered, so he just pressed his lips firmly shut.

"Back to my problem – the solution's simple," Moriarty concluded, spreading his hands. "I need to get to Sebastian before he gets to me."

"And then what will you do?" He still didn't see precisely what he'd have to do with it.

"Make him not kill me," Jim replied, as though it were obvious.

"Track him down then." Sherlock checked his watch: five o'clock. He had hours to kill. Maybe he could slow down… _No, get this over with. Don't be fooled. This man is dangerous._

Jim threw his head back in exasperation. "I _told_ you, Sherlock! He has my agents wrapped around his little finger. The moment I try to find him he'll know about it."

"So let me get this straight." Sherlock leaned forwards backwards, inspected the criminal closely. "You want me to find Sebastian Moran for you."

"_With_ me," Moriarty corrected swiftly.

"Right." The detective allowed himself an inner smile of disbelief. _Moriarty a client? God, that's something you'd never have expected._

Their eyes bored into each other, neither of them daring to speak.

_Are you sure this is a good idea?_ His mind asked.

_Of course not_, his darker side responded immediately,_ but just agree to it. You know you want to,_ it added slyly.

He took a deep breath.

_Here goes._

"I believe… I can help you."

_There. You've said it. There's no going back now._ He slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. _A case with Moriarty… Well, what's the worst that could happen?_

_Death,_ his conscience stated bluntly.

He shook his head slightly. The worrying had to be saved for later. He was going to go through with this now, no matter what. Despite himself, he felt a forbidden thrill at the prospect – _a case with Moriarty…!_

It was going to be brilliant – it had to be. Didn't it?

Jim nodded at his words, smiling with gratified satisfaction. "Thank you. But I'm afraid there's just one more thing."

And just like that, Sherlock was thrown back off balance. Fears began to tear at his insides again, his little bubble of optimism well and truly burst.

"Wh- what?" He struggled to keep the tremor from his voice. _Come on,_ he assured himself. _It can't be that bad._

Moriarty looked away uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you have to understand… this operation could take weeks."

"Yes." His throat was dry. _It'll be fine. It'll be great. Stop worrying._

Jim's voice was dangerously quiet. "I'm going to need somewhere to stay."

_No._

_Oh god no._

His heart began to judder.

"You can't–" he spluttered, trying to prevent his voice from rising in hysteria. "You can't possibly–"

"I've no other option!" Jim cut him off loudly, eyes begging. "It'll be the last place he'd suspect. He _knows_ we're enemies. He'd never even _consider_ you helping me!"

Sherlock's brain scrambled for excuses. "But if the others ever found out–"

"You hid a _girlfriend_ here for months. The others aren't a problem!" Moriarty leapt to his feet, advancing towards Sherlock until they were almost touching. He clasped his hands together, voice dropping suddenly to a low murmur.

"Please, Sherlock." The beautiful features were fraught with despair. "You're all I have now. My only hope."

_His only hope…_

Mind and heart racing, he looked up helplessly at his sworn nemesis. _Moriarty. Staying. In Baker Street. With me. _He pressed trembling hands to his temples. _No, no, no, this is too dangerous. You can't do this. You can't!_

"If you don't do this for me, he _will_ find me." Jim's tone was laced with desperation – but how much of it was just a game? "It's only a matter of time, Sherlock. I gave him too much power. He'll _kill_ me."

_If I don't do this, Moriarty will die…_

_That's precisely why you shouldn't!_ logic screamed. _This man is a murderous psychopath who'll do nothing but torment you for the rest of your life. This is your chance to get rid of him forever!_

And yet there was always the hiss at the back of his mind: _But is that what you really want?_

"_Argh!_" The frustrated cry broke from his mouth and hung between them, tense. Jim's pleading gaze was unwavering.

_He's right – you need him, Sherlock, you need him!_ There was no use in denying it now. _You need to keep him alive. You lost him once, you can't bear to lose him again._

_It's a few weeks at most. He won't do you any harm – not while he needs you. John's gone. Nobody will know._

_You're his only hope…_

_His only hope–_

"_Fine_!" he gasped.

Jim's eyes widened. They stared at each other in alarm.

_Oh god, you've done it. You've done it now._

The clasped hands dropped. The consulting criminal sucked in a shuddering breath.

"R… Really?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

_No turning back._

"Yes."


	3. Chapter 4

"Sher-lock?"

And before he knew it the detective had flung himself across the room, slamming his hands against the door frame to force it shut just as Mrs Hudson chose to nudge it open.

He froze, panting. _That was too close._

Then a new problem occurred to him: _How am I going to hide Moriarty from Mrs Hudson?_

Smothering his inner hysterical laughter at the arrangement he'd just agreed to, he forced himself to think logically. _She knew about Janine – that hadn't been a problem. But this is Moriarty we're talking about… _He shook his curls. _Argh, I'll find a way. Somehow._

"_Sher_-lock!" The landlady's voice was now laced with disapproval. "What's going on up there? I heard someone call for me earlier, I just wanted to check if you were alright!"

He split the door open a crack, enough to meet her confused gaze.

"S… sorry." He swallowed hard. "I've… someone up here with me. I'd rather you didn't come in."

She blinked, and her eyes suddenly widened. An ear-splitting grin stretched across her features. "Oh! All right! Sorry, I didn't realise." She literally giggled, then added in a hushed voice: "What's his name?"

It took him a moment to understand her reaction.

_Oh god. She thinks I have a boyfriend over._

"No!" he exclaimed. She frowned, but her beam didn't fade. "He's not – I don't – he is _not_ my boyfriend."

She sighed lovingly, shaking her head. "It's OK, Sherlock dear. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"No, seriously! I–"

"I'll leave you two to it, then." With a knowing smile, she closed the door and headed back down the stairs.

_No, no, no…_ He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. _This is ridiculous. This is bloody ridiculous. _He calmed himself down with a deep breath. _Never mind. You could use this to your advantage, demand privacy, keep him from her._

He turned slowly. Moriarty was nowhere in sight.

"Why are you growing cancer cells in the kitchen?"

Sherlock joined him there, watching on impassively as the consulting criminal inspected the petri dishes with the air of an expert.

Sherlock shrugged. "I was bored."

Jim grinned at him teasingly. "Well, you won't be for much longer."

Their eyes met, and the smile faded from his lips. He lowered the dishes, placing them quietly back where they had been, in their particular arrangement.

He slowly sauntered past Sherlock and out into the little corridor, opening the door to the bathroom. He peeked in and nodded to himself. Then he reached for another door handle –

"Stop!" Sherlock cried out suddenly.

Moriarty gave him a withering glance, but obeyed, removing his hand. The detective's eyes were cold as ice.

"Oh, of _course_," Jim sighed, sounding bored. "John's old bedroom."

Sherlock took a step closer and gripped his arm, tugging him away. "Don't go in there." He swallowed hard, heart hammering. "You can go everywhere but there. _Never_ go in there."

Moriarty rolled his eyes, his arm still caught in his nemesis's hold. "You can't keep _moping_ forever, Sherlock dear." His eyes crinkled up with laughter. "Just give me a kiss. It'll make it all better."

As the criminal's free hand reached up to touch his cheek, Sherlock leapt back in horror, releasing him. Jim merely chuckled, moving on to try another door.

"That's my bedroom," Sherlock growled.

Jim stood there, taking it all in: the periodic table of the elements on the wall; the collection of murder-related files lined up on the shelf; the photos of John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and – embarrassingly – the single photograph of the Holmes brothers on the bedside table, from when they were both younger. He turned to Sherlock and grinned.

"_Don't_." Sherlock cut him off before he could make any snide comments.

Moriarty shrugged. "I _am_ going to need somewhere to sleep, though."

Sherlock grimaced at the new dilemma. _Of course_. He doubted the self-proclaimed "king of the criminal empire" would settle for the couch. But John's bedroom was out of the question…

He swallowed.

"Take my bedroom, then."

_Now why the hell did you just say that?_

Jim raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Well, it _is_ a double bed…"

"–And I'll sleep on the couch," Sherlock said firmly.

Moriarty pouted. "Oh, _that's_ no fun. Come on. What's the worst that could happen?"

Sherlock struggled to broach the bizarre topic. "…Some things, James, are… over the top."

"It's _Jim_," he reminded him, eyes flashing with a sudden icy fury. "And don't bother. _I'll_ use the couch then."

"Really?" Sherlock couldn't keep the surprise – or the tiny tingle of disappointment – from his voice.

Moriarty laughed again. "Who knows? Maybe we'll both reconsider soon."

Sherlock ignored him.

Well, that was one thing sorted. He picked up one of the spare pillows, plumped it, and shoved past Jim into the living room, where he deposited it on the sofa.

He didn't have any blankets.

Cursing under his breath, he turned to the criminal who stood there nonchalantly, hands in pockets. "Stay here," Sherlock instructed. "Don't do anything stupid."

"As if _I _would ever do anything stupid!"

Sherlock opened the door, ensured he closed it properly behind him, and strode downstairs to find his landlady.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out. Sure enough, she came hurrying over immediately.

"Is everything all right, Sherlock dear?" she asked again, before adding, "Is _he _alright? What _is_ his name?"

He took a deep breath. "I need some spare blankets."

Her mouth formed a little _O _of surprise. "He's staying the night then? Well, don't be _too_ loud."

He winced. "Mrs Hudson, he is _not_–"

"Yes, yes, I know – just like John: 'not your boyfriend'." Shaking her head with another infuriating smile, she scampered away to fetch the blankets.

_Just like John…_

_You can't keep _moping_ forever,_ Jim had told him.

But he wasn't _moping_. Was he?

Remembering the panic that had swelled within him as Moriarty had been about to open John's old bedroom door, he allowed himself a moment of doubt.

_Maybe I am… _

_John's moved on now, hasn't he? So… shouldn't I?_

"Here you go!" Mrs Hudson returned, plonking the bundle of cloth into Sherlock's arms. Her cat-like grin remained.

"Thank you." He paused. "And, um… I'll need dinner for two."

"I'm your _landlady_, not your–"

"I'll pay you. Please. Just this once." The prospect of leaving a psychopath alone in Baker Street terrified him, but both men needed to eat.

She sighed heavily, but her eyes had warmed. "Oh, all right…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "As long as you tell me his name."

For a split second, he panicked – then went for it.

"James," he told her. It was the unrecognisable truth. "His name is James."

"_James?_" She crinkled her nose, trying it on her tongue: "James and Sherlock, Sherlock and James… Hmm. It doesn't really have a ring to it, does it?" She thought a little more. "_Jim_ would be better. Sherlock and Jim. But wait–" Her eyes widened with horror. "No, that's like – that's like _him_!"

"Who?" he replied coolly.

"You know…" She glanced around quickly, as though she were about to break a rule. "_Moriarty."_

He forced himself to laugh. "True. I hadn't thought of that."

Her eyes filled with anxiety. "You saw what happened this morning? Almost gave me a heart attack! Oh, God. Is he really back? You told me he was dead!"

"I don't know," he lied, avoiding her gaze, just like when he'd lied to John. "But if he is alive, I promise I'll bring him down again."

"Just be careful, Sherlock, all right?" She sighed heavily, but then her eyes lit up again. "And as for this James – have you had him for long?"

"Mrs Hudson, he is _not_ my–"

"It's perfectly _fine_, dear!" she cut him off, smiling fondly. "I'm glad you've found someone else, now that John's moved on."

_Now that John's moved on…_

"I'll come down to get the dinner," he told her briskly, turning around to head back up the stairs. "_Don't_ come in."

"I'll leave you two to it!" she chortled as he closed the door behind him.

"Well, well, well." Jim took the blankets from his arms, meeting his intelligent gaze. "Thanks for these. What else is there to arrange?"

"What will you do until the case is closed?" Sherlock asked him, determined to keep things professional. The sight of the blankets spread on the sofa made him uncomfortable.

"Well, I can't leave Baker Street without you, can I?" He pursed his lips and brushed more invisible dust off his suit sleeves. "So I'll just have to stay here."

"What do you mean, _without me_?" Sherlock frowned. "You can't leave Baker Street at all. People will recognise you, now that you've plastered your face on every screen in the country."

"_People_ only see what they want to see." Jim smiled dangerously. "I'll need ordinary clothes. It's cold; people keep their heads down. Nobody will notice."

"We're both famous," Sherlock pointed out.

"Not enough to have reporters pounding on your door." He flexed his muscles and yawned. "Maybe they'll ask you a couple of things about my reappearance, but that'll be it. They'll lose interest. I'll stay in here until you're done talking to them."

Moriarty had a point.

"Now then." Spinning around, he headed back towards Sherlock's bedroom. "Can I try some of your ordinary clothes on? See how well they fit."

Wordlessly, Sherlock followed him.

Once inside, he flung open the chest of drawers, revealing rows of neatly folded shirts. Jim inspected them carefully before picking a plain white T-shirt.

"Reminds me of what I wore when I stole the crown jewels," he remarked, sliding out of his suit jacket and tossing it onto the bed. Before Sherlock knew it the criminal had removed his dress shirt, too, leaving him topless. The detective averted his eyes.

"Oh, come now." Jim looked amused. "You've seen _John_ more than just shirtless. I'm sure I'm more than enough for you to handle."

"Shut _up_." _Don't talk about John. Don't._

Jim slipped on the T-shirt, stretching the fabric over his lean, muscular figure. He looked down at it speculatively. "Bit large, but it'll do. Any jeans that could fit me?"

Sherlock rifled through another drawer and found a pair that had shrunk in the wash. He handed it wordlessly to Moriarty, and faced the other way as he changed into them.

"Well, you can look now, _Sherly_!"

He turned. Moriarty stood there grinning, almost unrecognisable in ordinary clothing. He'd kicked off his shoes, plain black socks sinking into the carpet.

"The… the hair," Sherlock advised him, indicating the criminal's unnaturally slicked-back hairstyle.

Jim nodded in understanding, and ran a hand through it, ruffling it up. His locks broke free and dark tufts stuck up attractively in all directions. His smile was disarming.

"How do I look?" he teased.

"Great," Sherlock replied without thinking.

_Wait, _what_ did I just say?_

"Thank you, my dear." Jim looked victorious. "There's hope for us yet."

_What's _that_ supposed to mean?_

"As for _you_, Sherlock…" He took a step closer; they were inches apart. He looked up and met the detective's gaze with a predatory smirk, but something steely seemed to lurk within the surface. "_You_ need to learn to call me Jim."

Sherlock steadily met the challenge, determined not to be beaten. "All right… _Jim_."

"Excellent." The playful wrinkles returned around Moriarty's eyes; satisfied, he turned and strolled out of the room. His manner had changed entirely; Sherlock couldn't help but admire his acting skills. _Well, he fooled both Molly and Kitty Riley for days,_ he remembered. _That takes skill._

Following Moriarty out, he found him standing in the centre of the living room, absorbing the surroundings. Sherlock observed him warily.

"I see you've done some redecorating." He walked over to the skull on the mantelpiece, picking it up tenderly. "Billy, was it called?"

Sherlock didn't bother asking him how he knew.

He moved on, returning Billy to its spot before fixing his gaze upon the framed photograph beside it.

John and Mary on their wedding day.

Keeping his eyes on it, he swayed his head from side to side, stretching his neck. Sherlock watched him with a degree of fascination.

Moriarty turned around to meet Sherlock's gaze, sighing.

"Of all the psychopaths John could've chosen…" He picked up the photograph, turning it over restlessly in his hands. "It _had_ to be her, didn't it?"

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. His mouth was dry.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Jim actually sounded genuine. "The Virgin… You never _did_ go all the way, did you?"

Silence.

"You saved yourself for him and it was all for nothing," he continued. "Heartbreaking, isn't it?"

"Stop it," Sherlock whispered, face pale. "Please, just… stop it."

"I can repay you in more than just one way, Sherlock." Jim put the photograph face down on the mantelpiece, and smiled. "You _need_ to get over this. I can help."

"I don't _need_ anything," Sherlock told him stiffly. "How could you possibly help me?"

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock. You'll see soon enough." He brushed his knuckles against the detective's cheekbones – and to the surprise of both of them, Sherlock let him. "After all," Moriarty added silkily, "I _am_ Mr. Sex."


	4. Chapter 5

"_Pizza_."

Sherlock stared incredulously at the rectangular boxes Mrs Hudson laid on the table.

"You bought _pizza._"

"Well, you didn't specify what you wanted!" the landlady/housekeeper exclaimed squeakily. "You just told me to buy you two dinner! Aren't two pizzas enough? Surely he likes _pizza_!"

He refrained from snapping that the 'he' she was referring to was the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind, who probably expected more than just takeaway pizza.

"Two _are_ enough aren't they?" She looked worried. "I mean… is he…" She gesticulated vaguely. "Big?"

He decided to play along with the whole _boyfriend_ thing.

"He's short and thin," Sherlock described, "but, er… fit. _Very_."

She grinned at him. "Oh, like John, then!"

_Like John?!_

"What? No!" he cried. _Not like John. Not like John at all._

"Never mind," she said breezily, picking up the boxes and putting them in his arms one at a time. "Moving on, isn't it? But if that's your type…" She broke off, giggling.

Shaking his head, he stared blankly at the image of the smiling chef on the covers of the boxes. "How much do I owe you?"

"Not a penny!" she assured him brightly. "Consider it my welcome to James. How long is he going to stay?"

"A couple of days, a few weeks at most." He tried to brush it off.

"A few _weeks!_" She boggled. "You're serious about him, aren't you?"

_Well, Jim isn't _actually_ my boyfriend._

"I don't know. Maybe," he muttered. He felt bad about lying – but the truth would make him feel so much worse. Imagine how she'd feel, knowing he was keeping a raging psychopath under her roof! No – he needed to hide this from her, for her own good.

"Well, hurry back upstairs then," she told him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "Can't keep him waiting. Would you rather I went round to Mrs Turner's next door? You know, if you don't want–"

"That won't be necessary," he interrupted bluntly. _God. This boyfriend ruse is unbearably awkward._

"Okay. I'll be right here if you need me!" She was like a cackling grandmother.

"Yes. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He looked down at the pizza boxes in his arms. "For these, too."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Any time, Sherlock dear."

Cradling them delicately, he took to the stairs, glancing back down to check she wasn't peeking before shoving the door open.

Jim sat on the couch, looking dishevelled. He sprang to his feet as Sherlock entered, and blinked at his load.

"_Pizza_," he stated disbelievingly.

The detective sighed. "Yes, yes – I know." He set the boxes down on the table – and only then realised what Jim had done.

"You brought the armchair back?!" he positively screeched.

Moriarty looked bemused. "I thought it would be more convenient, now that there are two of us."

Heart hammering, Sherlock stared at the second armchair placed before his own. _John's chair. _His chest tightened.

"But that was in John's bedroom." He glared at the criminal accusingly. "I _told_ you not to go in there!"

"You were the one who put it in there, Sherlock." Jim made his way over to the newly situated armchair and sat down casually in it, looking up expectantly at his opponent.

_He's sitting in John's chair._

_He went in John's bedroom._

_He's taken John's chair._

"Besides, it's not John's bedroom anymore." Jim cracked open one of the boxes, and the thick, rich smell of tomato sauce wafted out.

"That's not the point!" Sherlock collapsed into his own chair, burying his head in his hands and pointedly avoiding Moriarty's smug expression. "I _told_ you not to go in there for a reason–"

"Look, how do you think you're going to get over John if you keep behaving like this?" Jim clasped his hands, shaking his head slightly. "It's these tiny things that you need to learn to ignore."

"I don't _need_ to 'get over' him," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

"Yes, you do," Jim insisted. "And I'll help you do that."

"_How?_" the detective replied scornfully.

Moriarty winked at him. "One kiss, Sherly. You won't regret it…"

"Shut up." _No way are you going to kiss this psychopath. _But his pulse did quicken. _Standard chemical response at the prospect_, he tried to dismiss. _Attractive male offering sexual interest. It means nothing_.

"Um, Sherlock? This has salami on it."

Jim was staring at the meat on his pizza with evident disgust.

Sherlock opened his. It was plain, nothing but the standard tomato and mozzarella. "Have mine then." It wouldn't make much of a difference to him. They switched pizzas.

"You don't like salami then?" he asked, lifting a slice.

Moriarty shook his head. "I'm vegetarian."

"You're _what?!_"

"Vegetarian!" Jim chuckled at his shocked expression. "Does it surprise you?"

"Why _you_, of all people?" Sherlock spluttered.

"Why _not_ me?" Jim tugged a silk handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped his fingers on it – he must have removed it from his suit when he changed. "I want to minimise the number of deaths I'm responsible for."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're doing a great job. Blowing people up and everything."

"Humans don't count."

They ate in silence. The pizza wasn't bad, just slightly soggy.

"Look, Jim…" Sherlock sighed. "We need to go over some ground rules."

"I'm _aaall_ ears!" his opponent sang with mock enthusiasm. He leaned back and waited.

"First of all." Sherlock took a deep breath. "_Don't_ enter–"

"Overruled." Jim cut him off. "John's old bedroom is just another bedroom. If I'm staying here I need access to all the grounds." When Sherlock tried to interrupt, he raised a hand to stop him. "I understand the _sentimental value_ attached to it. And that's precisely what we need to get rid of. Or rather, replace."

"Oh, look, _whatever_." If Moriarty was so determined to reform him, Sherlock knew there would be no changing his mind. "Just… don't go in there for the sole purpose of bugging me. I'm doing you a favour, James."

"It's _JIM!_" Moriarty shouted, his voice rising suddenly.

Sherlock jumped in his seat, then cursed himself for doing so. He waited for his heart rate to recover. "Secondly," he began sassily, "stop doing that."

"_You_ stop doing that," Jim snarled, face murderous.

"What? Calling you _James_?"

"I said _stop it!_" His eyes were wild, manic; he was taking sharp, shallow breaths.

Sherlock frowned, his focus heightening. What he'd assumed was merely another of Moriarty's pet peeves was beginning to gain particular importance.

"Why do you hate that name so much?" he asked experimentally.

Jim's fingers dug into the armrests. He visibly made himself relax, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He swallowed, hard. Sherlock watched him attentively – there was _definitely_ something going on there.

"Did… Sebastian Moran call you that, or something?" he tried, allowing a slightly taunting tone into his voice.

Jim smiled bitterly. "No, not Sebastian." He reached forward to pick up another slice of pizza, tenderly sinking his teeth into it.

"Who, then?" Sherlock was enjoying himself. Had he finally found a flaw in the seemingly unbreakable wall that was James Moriarty?

"Rule number one for you to obey." The consulting criminal's voice dipped dangerously low. "You don't ask about my past. You ask nothing I'm clearly unwilling to tell you."

"Only if you stick by _my_ rules," Sherlock artfully replied.

The smile crept back onto Moriarty's face. "Stalemate."

They regarded each other for a moment.

_The game really is back on_, Sherlock mused – and, despite everything, he not only felt an overwhelming respect for the consulting criminal, but…a wicked sense of delight. With almost everyone else, he was always on the winning side: the genius who saw straight through his pathetic minor foes, knew exactly which moves to make to defeat them. Here, the boredom was gone: his unpredictable – and, admittedly, gorgeous – nemesis put his real mental prowess to the test. It was… _exhilarating_. And more than just brilliant.

"Anyway." He cleared his throat. Jim resumed munching on his pizza. "Third rule: don't leave this flat without my permission."

"Not even to go downstairs?" Jim faked another of his pouts.

"Absolutely not!" he said firmly. "Which brings me on to rule number four. No revealing yourself to Mrs Hudson _in any way_."

"We're going to have to tell her eventually, you know," Moriarty pointed out.

"Not yet." _I'll figure out that problem later._

"What about John? Lestrade? Any more of your little _friends_?" he asked.

"Not them, either." He took a deep breath. _I can keep John at bay for, what, a month. That'll be enough. I hope._

"Even on New Year's Day?"

_Oh god no. _

The breath caught in his throat. New Year's Eve was only three days away – he'd completely forgotten about it, what with the time spent worrying about being sent to his death. They'd have a whole feast and stay up until midnight and drink a toast to the following 365 days – Sherlock never had seen the point of it all, but kept it up for their sakes. And this year would be no exception.

Jim offered a sympathetic smile at his pained expression.

"It'll be held here, won't it?" he pressed on. "You, Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade, Molly. And Mary now, I suppose. Ooh, and why don't you invite your brother for once?"

"I'll… come up with something." He clenched his fists, tried to still his panic. "Some excuse."

"For _New Year's_?" Jim tutted. "Doubt it. There's no way out of _this_ one, Sherly."

"Shut up. I will." _Not now. You'll have plenty of time later._

"And what about rule number five?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Rule number five," Jim repeated, expectantly.

"I think that's it for now." Sherlock let out a long breath. "Just… no messing around. We need this over and done with."

"Whatever you say, my dear." Jim's smile was unnerving. "Now, how about _my_ rule number two?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Why would _you_ need to give _me_ any rules? I'm the one doing you a favour."

"We need to co-operate nonetheless," Moriarty said patiently. "And like I've said, I want to repay you in more than just one way."

"If this is about me _moping_–"

"Yes, this _is_ about you _moping_. And also refusing to see what's right in front of you."

"And what may that be?" Sherlock lifted his chin, maintaining the frighteningly direct eye contact. The tension between them could have been cut with a knife.

"You and John were never going to happen," Jim told him.

_Shut up. Just shut up._

"He's _ordinary_, Sherlock." He raised both eyebrows, tilting his head, biting his bottom lip. "He's never been able to understand you. You'd always be left so _lonely_ with him."

_I'm not lonely._ An image of himself plucking at violin strings, lost in his own thoughts while John ran around chasing girlfriends came to mind; of John leaning over the very armchair Moriarty was sat in and telling him how inhuman he was. _Not lonely._

"And now he's married," Jim continued, "and going to have a baby…"

_It's the end of an era,_ Mycroft had told him. And all that talk about it being a new beginning instead, of the duo keeping up their cases together – well, now they went whole months without seeing each other. And the baby would only make it far, far worse. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest as he remembered – _the baby…_

"Sherlock, can't you see?" Jim had leaned over, dark eyes searching him. "We were _made_ for each other."

_No…_

"I… am _nothing_ like you." His voice was weak.

Jim's lips twisted upwards. "We both know that's not quite true."

_I'm not evil and blackened and a psychopath. I don't kill people…_

…But he _had_ killed, hadn't he?

He had raised a gun to a man's temple and pulled the trigger at point-blank range. He had done that.

_He_ was a murderer, too.

His mind scrambled for excuses. _Magnussen deserved–_

_Murder is murder,_ his conscience intervened. _Mycroft would have taken him down anyway. But you killed him, and for what reason? To show John how much you loved him? As if that would have made a difference. You're a killer now, Sherlock – like him._

"We could be so much more than just enemies, Sherlock." Jim rested his head on his clasped knuckles, his gaze never tearing away from the detective's. "It wouldn't take much. The foundations are in place. All you need to do is make your first move."

_Moriarty is obsessed with you,_ Sherlock warned himself. _There's no telling what he'll do to you if you give him the chance._

"Just… consider." Giving him one last haunting smile, the criminal stood up slowly. "You've plenty of time."

Sauntering over to the sofa, he picked up his phone lying among the blankets, holding it up.

"Now, shall I brief you on my case?"


	5. Chapter 6

3:29am.

Sherlock blinked hard at the glowing numbers on his clock screen. _4 hours to kill._ He gave a long, juddering breath, turning over in bed to close his eyes and attempt to drift back into peaceful rest; but sleep remained stubbornly unreachable.

Giving up, he kicked away the blankets and sat up, eyes adjusting to the murky darkness.

And then he remembered.

_Moriarty._

The consulting criminal was just a few rooms away. His heart rate sped up at the thought. The psychopath was _under his roof._

No wonder he couldn't sleep.

He became overcome by a sudden desire to see him. What did Moriarty look like when he slept? Did he even sleep? Was he an insomniac, or did he spend blissfully untroubled hours at ease?

_No, don't be ridiculous. _He wanted as little to do with Jim as possible. Collapsing back onto his bed, he wrapped the sheets around himself, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He began to recite potassium's chemical compounds and their molar masses in his head as a distraction.

He lay there for what felt like an age.

At long last, he lifted his head off the pillow and rolled over to face the clock again. Slender fingers pressed down upon the _Glow_ button.

3:36.

_Damn it. _He groaned, cursing his brain under his breath – _why can't I just sleep like an ordinary person?_

"_Because you're not ordinary_," a soft voice murmured in reply.

The singsong Irish tones sounded suspiciously like Moriarty's.

Sherlock jolted upwards, eyes widening, scanning the room desperately for a second before realising he'd merely imagined it. With an exasperated sigh, he contemplated lying back down in his warm, comfy bed – but knew it was useless. _I'll never be able to get back to sleep._

_Unless…_

He sighed. _All right – just this once. To set the curiosity aside and actually get some peace afterwards._

He untangled himself from the blankets, his feet shuffling on the carpet, ready to shift his weight onto them. He stood shakily, steadying himself with his mind palace. _I can't believe I'm doing this,_ he complained to himself.

He headed for the door – and paused. He was in his birthday suit. That wouldn't do – what if, by some bizarre chance, Moriarty was awake? With a gulp, he returned to his bed and grabbed one of the thinner sheets, wrapping it around his naked form. _Better._ Finally, his hand grasped the door handle and slowly twisted it open.

His bare feet padded on the floor as he stealthily made his way to the living room. _Why the hell am I doing this?_ he asked himself yet again, but he didn't dwell on the thought; it was pointless anyway. He was going to watch Moriarty sleep – or not sleep, depending on the lunatic's schedule – and that was that. It was merely to check. To find out more about his enemy. It was a perfect opportunity; who could blame him?

He heard a noise – whispering. He froze in his tracks, heart leaping. Silence. Must have been his imagination again.

Light filtered weakly through the living room windows, presumably from the lamp post positioned outside. Sherlock breathed shallowly, quickly making out the shape of the criminal strewn on the sofa. _Asleep, then._ Avoiding furniture and making as little noise as possible, he crept closer and closer until he was standing right in front of the couch.

Moriarty's eyes fluttered open.

Panic swelled in Sherlock like a tide – but was hastily quelled as he saw that the man's pupils were dilated and unfocused. _He's dreaming_, Sherlock realised.

Moriarty's mouth cracked open, to suck in a rasping breath. His hands, when Sherlock glanced at them, were trembling. He frowned. _Something's wrong here._

Shakily, Jim's hoarse, hushed voice spilled from his lips.

Sherlock listened intently. At first Jim could form nothing but unintelligible fragments of words – but gradually these grew in coherence.

"_My name is – J-James… Moriarty…"_

What? _He never calls himself James. He never lets anyone call him James_. Sherlock blinked hard, running the words through his head again. They were unmistakable. What did this mean?

"_And I have… sinned… sssinned, I have–_"

Jim jerked suddenly, as though struck. A low moan slipped from him; Sherlock took a sudden step backwards. _What is this?_

Moriarty's breaths came quicker now, laced with desperation, dragging into his lungs. His whole body began to shudder, his glazed eyes widening to stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

_A nightmare. He's having a nightmare – of what?_ None of it seemed to add up. _Why would Jim, of all people, have nightmares like this...? Psychopaths don't feel guilt. They don't feel fear. This doesn't make sense._

"_I'm s-s-sorry._" Snatches of Jim's voice rose with traces of genuine terror. "_Please d… don't…_"

_Don't what? What's happening?_ Fear pricked through Sherlock's defences. _Is he going to be alright?_

Jim's voice trailed off into something akin to a sob. A pale, quivering hand rose weakly, imploringly, only to fall like a dead weight to his side. Sherlock couldn't believe what was happening. _What is all this? What's wrong with him?_

Before his horrified gaze, a single, thick tear leaked from the corner of one of Moriarty's sightless eyes, leaving a glistening trail on his cheek.

Sherlock stepped back, shaking his head in confusion and disbelief. _What did I just see? Oh, god, what have I done?_

Jim lay still, limp and shattered on the couch, eyes drifting shut but expression still contorted in suffering. Quietly but hastily, Sherlock made his way back across the room, ensuring he was a safe distance away before fleeing to the comfort of his own bedroom.

There he threw himself onto the bed and listened to the panicked hammering of his heart.

_What just happened? What have I done?_

He and sleep remained strangers for the rest of the night.

The bedroom door swung open.

Sherlock sprang up immediately, sharp eyes quickly settling upon the figure in the doorway.

Moriarty.

He glanced at his clock – 7:01. So the criminal wasn't too much of an early riser. Sherlock swallowed; for hours he'd done nothing but toss and turn in his bed, mind reeling at the memories of Jim breaking in his sleep. He felt worn out and absolutely awful.

Jim, on the other hand, looked completely fine – _more_ than fine – as he playfully flicked on the light switch. "Rise and _shine_, Sherlooock!" he sang merrily, the night's ordeal hidden without a trace. Sherlock decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut about that. _If he finds out I saw him…_

"May I have some privacy for a moment?" he asked courteously, self-consciously trying to adjust the blankets over his bare form.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He turned to face the other way. Sherlock supposed that was the most he could ask for. "What's for breakfast?" Moriarty inquired brightly, occupying himself by examining the periodic table on the wall.

"I don't know. Mrs Hudson will–" Sherlock stopped in his tracks. _Mrs Hudson can't come in here_. "Actually, I'll, um… I'll go downstairs and get it later."

"When? I'm _starrr_ving."

"Around eight, perhaps. Eight thirty." Ensuring that the knots wrapping the sheets around him were securely in place and unlikely to break free to display him in all his glory to his nemesis, Sherlock stood, sighing, "Well, you can look now."

Jim spun around, took in the ramshackle 'clothing' with an appraising glance, and offered a wry grin. His hair was all ruffled up in random, adorable places. Sherlock cleared his mind of distracting thoughts.

"D'you have any more clothes I could borrow? Something like yesterday'd be nice."

Sherlock had lent him a pair of plain, grey, slightly oversized tracksuit bottoms and a white vest to sleep in, exposing more than just his muscular arms. He looked good in them. Scrap that, he looked great.

_Potassium chloride, KCl, molar mass: 74.5513 g·mol__−1__…_

Clearing his throat loudly, Sherlock pulled open the chest of drawers to let Jim contemplate the array of shirts again. Leaning over them, he picked out a crumpled white, cotton dress shirt; comfortable and casual. Unbuttoning it, he slipped it on over his vest – but not before Sherlock noticed something on his right shoulder which he hadn't before.

"Wait, what is that?" he asked before he could stop himself, referring to the strange series of thick white lines criss-crossing and weaving onto the criminal's back, diving out of sight beneath the vest.

"Rule number one violation," Moriarty responded coolly, one quick gaze daring the detective to question further.

_Please tell me those aren't what I think they are_. Again, he saw the trail of the spilled teardrop flickering in his mind, and forced himself to push it away. _I shouldn't have gone there. I shouldn't have seen that._

"Do you have any more trousers?" Jim asked.

Sherlock switched his attention to the clothing issues. "Um…" He struggled for a moment. "Mrs Hudson's washed the only ones I can think of that'd fit you. Sorry."

"'Ts OK. I'll just wear what I wore yesterday." He twirled out of the room to fetch the worn jeans.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment to breathe. _You're going to need to find out what last night was about soon enough,_ he told himself with frustration, _or you'll never find peace. God! Why does this man have to be so… complicated?_

"Look," he called out, making his way over to the living room again – daylight now streamed brightly through the windows. "We need to go out and buy more… supplies."

"Like what?" Jim looked up from fastening the jeans, which fit him snugly, clinging to his lean figure.

"Well, for example, we can't go on disinfecting and then re-using my toothbrush for the rest of your stay." The toothbrushes had presented a problem last night, and their solution had been the only one available.

"Fair enough." Jim stood, shifting his weight upon the balls of his feet. He ran a hand through his dark hair to tone down its fluffiness. In his ordinary outfit, he was so convincingly _normal_ that Sherlock found it a little unsettling.

"Also, I've been thinking." Sherlock swallowed. "When it comes to Sebastian Moran…"

Moriarty stilled. "…Yes?"

"We can use my Homeless Network," he pointed out. "They're everywhere, speedy and virtually undetectable."

Jim nodded his agreement. "That might help."

"I'll text them now." He reached for his phone, which was plugged into the living room wall. _Maybe I should move it somewhere else from now on_, he thought. _Just in case Jim hacks it or something_.

Rapidly, he composed a message to his operatives – all 96 of them. _The more, the merrier._

"Read me what you've written before you send it," Jim instructed.

Sherlock obliged. "'Looking for Sebastian Moran, aged 33. Ex-gunman in the British Army, currently a sniper in the employ of James–" Jim visibly winced, but said nothing– "Moriarty. Need him found for case as soon as possible. Keep yourselves hidden.' And I've attached the picture of him that you sent me."

"Get rid of my name," Moriarty told him immediately. "Just in case."

Sherlock obliged. "And where shall we meet them?"

"Of course – they can't come to Baker Street, can they?" Jim mused. "Somewhere within walking distance, though… Montagu Mansions. It's a small street, but the surroundings are populated and well-off enough for us not to look suspicious."

"Agreed."

_Looking 4 Sebastian Moran, 33. Ex-gunman, British Army; currently sniper. Need him found ASAP 4 case. Keep hidden. If found text & meet me Montagu Mansions, 9am.  
SH_

Ensuring the necessary file was attached, he sent it.

It was 7:14. Almost an hour until breakfast.

"Mrs Hudson never gets up before eight," Sherlock told him. "We might as well go to the supermarket now without worrying about her spotting you."

"Kay." Jim glanced down at his bare feet. "What about socks? Shoes?"

The socks weren't a problem – Sherlock returned briefly to his bedroom to fetch an extra pair – but the shoes were. Jim's expensive leather ones would never fit his new, casual outfit. "What size are you?" he asked, as he made his way over to the cupboard where his shoes were stored.

"6 ½." Jim shrugged. "I know – I have small feet."

"I've only got size 8." Biting his lip, Sherlock knelt to rummage through his shoe collection – and stopped.

John's old shoes sat at the back.

Size 7.

He must have forgotten them when he left…

The criminal's words swelled in his mind.

_How do you think you're going to get over John if you keep behaving like this?_

Swallowing and blinking his eyes hard, Sherlock summoned his courage and took them in his hands. They were worn and scruffy, slightly dusty: the epitome of ordinariness.

_You and John were never going to happen._

"Jim," he called out, voice frail.

Moriarty joined him. Sherlock handed them over without a word.

"Size 7," the criminal remarked, inspecting them briefly, leaving the obvious unspoken. "Should fit me."

_And now he's married, and going to have a baby…_

Sherlock stood up slowly, keeping his face impassive. Jim slid into the shoes, wriggled his toes. "Bit large, but they'll do."

Their eyes met. A brief moment of understanding passed between them.

Moriarty closed his eyes briefly, nodding slightly in acknowledgement.

"Keep it up," he whispered.

_It's working_. Sherlock could hardly believe it. _It's actually working._

Nodding back and flashing him a brief smile, he turned and grabbed his coat off a rack, handing an identical one to Jim – he had lots of coats. Turning the collar up as he hurtled down the stairs, he put on a pair of his own shoes before slipping a hand into his coat pocket. The tiny camera and microphone were still there. He felt an odd thrill at their touch.

It was a beautiful day – sunlight still illuminated the streets despite the January cold. Stuffing on his trusty blue scarf, he turned to check that Moriarty was following him as he shoved the front door open.

Lights flashed in his face.

He blinked and stumbled forward.

A mass of people surrounded him – more lights went off as cameras clicked and whirled, all of them aimed at his face. Microphones lunged towards him, a cacophony of voices overwhelming him –

"Mr. Holmes! Over here! Mr. Holmes!"

"Just give us one big smile–"

"One interview, eh? Just one–"

"What have you got to say, sir, about–"

"Is Moriarty really back, Mr. Holmes? What do you–"

_Reporters._

He spun around, but it was too late – Moriarty stood frozen in the doorway, bewilderment painted on his features.

It would only take a second for them to notice him–

"Jim! _RUN!_" Sherlock screamed.

Lights went off like sparklers as Moriarty heeded his cry, turning tail and fleeing back into 221B.

The reporters stood breathless with excitement for a moment – then rounded on Sherlock.

"Jim? Who's JIM?"

He took a step backwards.

_Oh no. What have I just done?_

"Have you found a new partner? Is he–"

"What are your relations–"

"One interview, Mr. Holmes–"

"Will this 'Jim' be–"

He ran back into the flat and slammed the door behind him.

_Please tell me that didn't just happen. Please tell me I didn't just –_

"Oh my _god_," he groaned aloud.

Moriarty sat at the foot of the stairs, watching him with a steely look in his eyes. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight.

"You've done it now," he told Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands.

_You've done it now._

Silence fell – thick and heavy, filled with dread.


	6. Chapter 7

**JIM-LOCK HOME**

_**Mysterious 'Jim' spotted at home of death-defying detective Sherlock Holmes – could he be his next John Watson?**_

"So the first article's up," Moriarty muttered, reading over Sherlock's shoulder.

The article then launched into an extremely suggestive contemplation of who exactly this "Jim" person could be, what role he could have in Sherlock's life, and even described Sherlock's warning cry as "full of desperate, raw emotion, unusual for the previously stoic detective".

"They think we're in a _relationship_," Sherlock sighed, stating the obvious. _Fantastic. More tabloid gossip._

The link hadn't been drawn to Moriarty, thankfully, and to the unknowing eye there could be no correlation – but Sherlock knew he would have no such luck when it came to his friends.

For the article was accompanied by a lucky shot of Jim's retreating figure. Although his back was to the camera, it wouldn't take long for his brighter companions to take the name into account, inspect the straight, dark locks and the short, muscular figure, and put two and two together.

It was 8:03, less than an hour since the event; Mrs Hudson was awake, the shopping remained undone, and an article was already up on the _Daily Mail _website. The news would make the headlines by tomorrow morning.

"This is a _mess_," Sherlock groaned, sinking deeper into his armchair.

"Why did you call me by my name?" Jim hissed by his ear. "Couldn't you just tell me to run?"

"I'm _sorry_," the detective apologised for the umpteenth time. "I'd got so used to calling you Jim like you told me to, and…"

"Oh, _whatever_." Moriarty straightened, rubbing his temples. He hadn't even taken John's shoes off – to spite the detective, perhaps?

"Well, at least nobody will see it yet–"

He was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

Both of them froze.

Mrs Hudson's voice drifted up to them. "If it's those bloody reporters again, I swear I'll–"

Sherlock had barely had time to send Jim upstairs before Mrs Hudson had come storming out of her bedroom in her nightie, demanding to see what all the shouting was about. Her fury, when she found out, had been ghastly to see. The reporters had scampered away – although it was too late by then. The photos had been taken, the words had been heard: the damage was done.

Her voice now rose in pleasant surprise. "_John!"_

_Oh, no._

"Get out of sight," Sherlock instructed Jim, leaping to his feet, heart thumping. _This is going to end badly. Even if I pretend Moriarty just popped over to make some empty threats and left within the hour, John is _not_ going to be happy._

"Where?" Moriarty's untroubled, slow movements grated on the detective's nerves. Jim stretched majestically, flexing his muscles while giving him a withering look.

"The bathroom. Actually, no, my bedroom. Just _go!_" Jim raised a quizzical eyebrow. "…_Please_," Sherlock added through clenched teeth.

With a shrug and a final look of disdain, Moriarty sauntered into Sherlock's bedroom, the door slamming with a final _thunk_.

Just in time. John's footsteps reached the top of the staircase and he shoved the front door open.

"Ah, John." Sherlock mimicked delighted surprise, forcing a smile. "Good to see you."

"_Sherlock_." John ignored the pleasantries, holding up a smartphone opened at the article which sent Sherlock's heart sinking. "What the _hell _is this?!"

The detective swallowed, stalling. "I suppose I… should have known you would have any news with my name in it on a notification system."

"Now don't get smart with _me_, Sherlock." John was spitting. _This is going to be hard to explain away._ "See this photograph? The name _Jim_?" He took a deep breath. "Jim _Moriarty?_ I mean–" He saw his restored armchair and, without thinking, sat down heavily in it to face the detective. "_Really_, Sherlock?"

"Yes, really." Sherlock decided to counterattack with a scathing tone. "Is there a problem?"

"A _problem?_" John laughed incredulously. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, there is!"

"Why? As you can see, I'm alive. I'm in one piece. He left within the hour." The lie was heavy and uncomfortable on Sherlock's tongue, so he smothered it in further bitterness. "Besides, what's it to you? Just go away! Go back home to your _pregnant wife_ and your _ordinary_ life without me."

John's mouth dropped open. He looked like he'd just been punched.

Guilt threatened to overcome Sherlock, but he fought it back. _No. I need John out of here._

"Can you blame me for being worried?" John finally managed, in a low voice.

"Worried_?_" Sherlock combated immediately. "_Worried?_ You've moved on, John. I'm no longer as important as I once was. You leave me for _months_ to attend to your wife and good on you, I mean–" Sherlock stopped himself, steadying his trembling voice. "Just don't expect me to just… sit around here, and wait for you to appear to… to_ boss me around_. I'm on my own now – you _left_ me on my own. You can't blame me for doing things without your _esteemed consent_."

John's eyes were wide with shock. Words failed him.

And then they heard the clapping.

Slow. Steady.

_Clap. Clap._

Almost mocking.

_Clap._

And Moriarty walked in.

The bedroom door made hardly a sound as it closed behind him. The consulting criminal had removed the shoes at last as well as Sherlock's socks, and his pretty, bare feet tread carefully on the wooden floorboards, like a dancer on a tightrope. A smile crept across his face, disarming, deadly.

_Clap. Clap._

John's eyes were filled with panic. He seemed paralysed, terror binding him into place.

Moriarty stopped beside Sherlock's chair, so close the detective could smell his aftershave on him – Jim had borrowed it that morning.

Sherlock felt nothing but emptiness inside.

_So this is how it's going to be..._

"Well _done_, Sherlock." Jim's voice was so tender, brimming with pride and a simple joy. Another _clap._ "I knew you could do it." The criminal's pale hand slid onto his enemy's right shoulder and squeezed, almost comfortingly. At last he turned to John, the grin never faltering. "Hello again, Doctor Watson." A little pause, broken by a chuckle. "Did _you_ miss me?"

John broke.

"_WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!_" He bolted out of the chair and stumbled back, raising his arms defensively. His eyes flicked manically between Sherlock and the psychopath beside him. "_Sherlock?!_ What the – you told me he – what the _HELL_ have you done?!"

"He stood up to you," Jim let his hand slip away from Sherlock's shoulder; the man felt a hollowness where it had been. "I'm sorry you didn't like it, but frankly, you deserve worse after all the pain you've been putting him through."

"No. Sherlock. _Explain_." John's hands were curled into fists; he took deep, shuddering breaths to quell the panic the sight of the criminal had caused. "This man, he – he tried to _blow me up _and you – _JESUS, _Sherlock!"

"_I'll_ explain," Moriarty told him simply, before leaning over, gripping Sherlock's jaw with one hand and crushing their lips together.

The kiss was slow, yet fierce and passionate. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking in the feel of it, the rush of endorphins leaving him breathless. Jim was a ridiculously good kisser. Thrills pulsed through him; he parted his lips, letting the criminal's tongue snake through them and slide across his lower teeth, possessively. He slowly attempted the same: Moriarty tasted good – crisp and cool. Sherlock realised his hand had sprung up and was now brushing against the man's smooth jawline; the touch sent shivers down his spine.

All too soon, the criminal pulled gently away – and reality came crashing back.

_Wait, _what_ have I just done?!_

John's poor face was ashen. He gaped at the pair like a goldfish; Sherlock had to drag his eyes away from his beautiful nemesis's deep, dark gaze to turn back to his best friend.

Silence. Neither of them knew what to say.

_I can't believe I just let him do that._

Moriarty smirked – he was winning, and he knew it.

"I'm staying here for a few days, a week, maybe two," he informed the good doctor, each word seeming to drain some of the life from the unfortunate man. "Sherlock and I reached the agreement yesterday, for reasons which are none of your concern."

"But… but…" John suddenly seemed to remember that he needed to breathe and sucked desperate lungfuls of air from the room. His voice was feeble, dimmed by shock. "W-what…"

"New Year's Eve." Sherlock spoke for the first time. His own voice was surprisingly unchanged, although his mind and his heart were still racing. "Does it still have to be here at Baker Street?"

John blinked. "You… just…" His voice faltered, so he abandoned the subject. "After all this you're… you're worried about _New Year's?_"

"Of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He couldn't understand why he felt so unconcerned and detached, but used it to his advantage, reasserting superiority. "Everyone's going to be there – Lestrade, Molly, _Mary–"_ Spite laced her name, which he toned down a bit–_ "_and we were even thinking of inviting my brother this time. But I never even intended _you_ to find out about…" His gaze snapped back to the criminal by his side. "Him."

"_We_," John pointed out hoarsely. "You and… _Moriarty_… so, what, are you a – is it a _thing_ now? Just – you and Jim? Consulting… boyfriends?"

"He's not my _boyfriend_," Sherlock dismissed, although the words echoed in his mind. _Consulting boyfriends…_ that had a ring to it, as Mrs Hudson would say.

"Oh! Right! Of course not!" John laughed weakly. Moriarty just looked thoughtful.

"So, yes." Sherlock clasped his hands together, tone casual, as though inquiring about nothing more than the latest murder case. "New Year's. Can't it be held at yours?"

"_No_." The doctor was being stubborn on purpose, he could tell – a little act of defiance. _It's kind of pathetic_, Sherlock thought with a stab of annoyance. _Why can't he just see things from my point of view?_

"Jim and I are on a _case_–"

"A _case!_" John positively shrieked, a disbelieving smile on his worn features. "What sort of _case _could _possibly_ require–"

"One which is _none of your concern_." Jim's voice had dipped dangerously low. It thrummed in Sherlock's ears, and he found himself nodding slightly as he listened. "Like he said – you abandoned him, so he's doing things alone now. If he wants to take on a case with me, he takes on a case with me. You've no say in this matter anymore."

"You're a _psychopath_," John spat at him. Moriarty's right eye twitched. He said nothing.

"That was uncalled for, John," Sherlock found himself saying.

John stared at him.

"I can't believe this," he stated, shaking his head repeatedly. "Look, sod this. Right? Now you two go chasing your – your little _romance_–" He forced himself to say the word, then looked like he'd been dealt a vicious blow. "I'm _going_. And as for your _New Year_, it's staying here, and I'm telling the others for their own good–"

He was cut off by Sherlock hurtling over and snatching his arm in a vice-like grip.

The detective's gaze was cold as ice.

"You tell _no-one_," he snarled under his breath, bringing their faces inches apart. John's eyes brimmed with horror. "If you don't want to help us, then _fine_. But don't you _dare_ make everything worse."

John yanked his arm away, trembling slightly. Only his left hand remained perfectly still and steady.

"What happened to you?" he asked, tone helpless and pleading.

"_I _did!" Moriarty called out. Their eyes flickered over to him; he stood with his arms crossed, watching with an air of mild interest. He offered them a harmless smile.

John's voice dripped with disdain. "What, the psychopath and the sociopath. A fine couple _you'll_ make." He stepped back, scanning Sherlock's expression one last time. If he was searching for empathy and trust, he found none.

Sadness slumped his shoulders and shadowed his gaze. Finally admitting defeat, he grasped the door handle, before turning back to quietly ask just one more question.

"Who else knows?"

"No-one," Sherlock replied immediately. He felt a bit sorry for the doctor. _Maybe we were a tad harsh... But then again, he _has_ completely 'abandoned' me. What right does _he_ have to be angry?_

John nodded sombrely, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Just… when he's gone…" He struggled. "Tell me, okay?"

Sherlock softened his tone. "Okay. Give my love to Mary."

The front door opened and drifted slowly shut. John was gone.

"That was _impressive!_" Jim laughed behind him.

Sherlock spun around. The criminal's eyes twinkled. He looked _adorable_.

_He kissed me,_ the detective thought, recalling the bittersweet feeling of the man's lips against his. _He actually… kissed me._

"What was that about?" he managed.

"Oh, John was going to figure it out eventually." Jim skipped over to his chair and sat down in it, crossing his legs. "I speeded up the process before things could get uglier."

Sherlock joined him, returning to his own armchair. _I didn't mean that_, he almost said, but swallowed it. No doubt Moriarty would get to _that_ soon enough.

"Speaking of which, well _done!_" Jim gave a low wolf whistle, raising his eyebrows. He looked so happy that Sherlock could hardly keep a small smile off his face. "You really took my words to heart, didn't you? At this rate, you'll be over him even _before_ we get started."

"Get started on… what?" Sherlock swallowed. He knew the answer, but wanted to hear the criminal say it. Just to be sure.

"_Consulting boyfriends_. That's a great term, isn't it? You thought so too." Sherlock didn't bother denying it. A sly look entered Jim's eyes. "So – did you _like _the French kiss?"

The detective chose his words carefully. "You… you're a good kisser," he admitted.

"Better than John?"

Moriarty was testing him. He made himself give the truthful answer. "Better than John."

"Perfect." Jim heaved a satisfied sigh.

"But why did…" Sherlock's voice trailed off. For one so well-spoken he had a hard time putting the events into words.

"To prove a point to John, I suppose." Jim shrugged. "Does it even matter? I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a _teensy_ glimpse of what we could have. And you can't say you didn't like it."

He _had_ liked it. A lot. Too much.

"So, y'know." Moriarty spread his hands, winked teasingly. "Any time you feel like changing your mind – I'm _rrright_ here."

_I don't know._ Sherlock knew it was wrong to even contemplate a 'relationship' with his arch-nemesis. And yet it had felt so… _right_…

_You know what? Just leave it as it is. _With that, he settled his internal discussion. _Something might come up. But until then, leave it._

"Now then," Jim interrupted his thoughts. "Fetch us some breakfast, will you, my dear?"


	7. Chapter 8

"So."

Sherlock scanned the eight eager faces before him. Their names refused to come to mind, but their phone numbers did, seeming to glow in the air before them. He was having a hard time concentrating – the events of the previous hours still buzzed in his mind. And the lack of names was frankly very irritating.

"You." He pointed into the face of the one furthest to the left. "You're One." He moved on to the woman standing beside One. "You're Two."

Jim snorted behind him. Sherlock ignored the consulting criminal and continued numbering his recruits, until he was no longer faced with a mass of complicated, nameless people but eight neatly numbered and organised informants.

"Ain't you gonna give _me_ a number, boss?" Wiggins leaned against the wall, looking bored.

"I know _your_ name, _Billy_. Now, then." Sherlock directed his gaze at One. "What do you have?"

One's voice was gruff, his dishwasher-blond hair dishevelled, but his green eyes – like the others' – glowed with a faint intelligence. "I texted you the details, sir–"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock plucked his phone from his pocket, finding the matching phone number and opening the corresponding message log. An image filled the screen: despite its blurriness, it was unmistakably Sebastian Moran. "Where did you find him?"

"Camden," came the instant reply. "Walking along Parkhill Road. Disappeared into number 7."

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and spun around. "Does it ring a bell?"

"One of my agents has a haunt there," Moriarty explained. "Coleridge, his name is. Respectable man – nobody suspects he's one of mine." He smirked, but quickly wiped it off his face. "We haven't been in touch with him for years. I don't know what Seb would want from him."

Sherlock nodded quickly, stringing a map together in his mind. "And what time was this?"

"7:15, just after you texted me. Stroke of luck," One told him. "I couldn't linger long. All I can say's he was still there at 7:18."

"Excellent. Thank you." He turned to Two. "And you?"

"8:02. Hackney," the dark-haired woman replied in a shrill voice. "14 Darnley Road."

Sherlock turned to observe Jim's reaction.

Their eyes met, and Moriarty nodded. "Another one – his name's Ward. Again, we haven't seen him for a while."

The list of names and locations continued, each with their accompanying photos. The sightings were all around twenty minutes apart, in differing locations; but each time, the addresses Sebastian had visited – or the whereabouts of where he had been seen – corresponded to members of Moriarty's old network.

"He's definitely contacting my old agents," Jim confirmed. "And so far, they're all fairly loyal to him."

"What for, though?"

"Support, I assume." Jim swallowed, clenching his jaw. "Gaining powerful allies for help in finding me. We need to keep a low profile."

"He seems to be travelling from the Eastern outskirts in a spiral towards the centre." Sherlock closed his eyes, visualising the map and realising something with a jolt. "He should be nearing _us_."

"Let's get back to Baker Street. Keep us informed," Jim instructed the eight members of the Homeless Network. "Stay in this area, and any areas he might move on to. The moment you find anything, text Sherlock."

"You've all done well." The detective pulled a wad of fifty-pound notes from inside his coat, splitting them between the operatives who murmured their thanks. "And remember – not a word of this to anyone."

Nodding hurriedly, they each took their leave, blending back into the shadows.

Sherlock turned to Moriarty with a troubled frown. "Is Moran planning something?"

"Definit'ly," Wiggins interrupted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "'E's working 'is way towards the centre. Narrowin' it down."

"Yes. He's not sure where you are but trying to sniff you out." Sherlock sighed wearily. "At least we'll be able to predict his next move."

"Not for long," Jim countered. "He's careful. He knows he's set a pattern and won't keep it up for more than a few hours."

"We could stop him now. Get Lestrade involved–"

"NO!" Moriarty cut him off sharply. "Do you realise how dangerous this man is? We can't confront him without a proper plan. People will get killed and he'll _eeeasily_ escape."

Sherlock met his gaze levelly. "I thought you didn't _care_ about people getting killed."

Jim smiled, his voice softening, deepening. "But I know _you_ do."

"Are you two married or somethin'?" Wiggins sniffed, watching them with a curious smile.

"Or something." Jim didn't take his eyes off his enemy's.

"For a psychopath and mass murderer, yer not as bad as all the newspapers say you are," Bill continued. "I'd say yer quite nice, really. Didja _really_ rob the Tower of London?"

"Not for long," Moriarty dismissed. "I got bored."

"You were _caught_," Sherlock contradicted.

"Only because I _let_ them catch me."

"Look, we really need to get back home." Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter around himself, glancing at his watch – 10:23. They'd delayed the meeting by an hour, and it had taken a further five minutes for everyone to show up. "Wiggins, thank you. I'll add extra to your monthly salary."

"Always a pleasure, boss." Standing up straight, Bill nodded at them both before slinking away, leaving them on their own.

All that remained for them now was a return to Baker Street.

They never got there.

A police car was parked outside 221B, lights still flashing. Sherlock took one glance at it and his eyes widened.

"Lestrade."

Jim darted to the side as he reached the door, shoving it open. Sure enough, he found the inspector quickly making his way up the stairs to the flat.

"George," he called out to him.

Lestrade jumped in surprise, then spun around, annoyed. "How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock – it's _Greg._"

Sherlock looked sheepish. "Sorry."

Moriarty hadn't entered yet – he stood awkwardly beside the door, flashing him a quizzical glance. _Do I go in? Introduce myself?_

Sherlock gestured briefly at him, trying to make it inconspicuous: _wait a moment._

"So, why are you here, Greg?" He stood up straighter, adjusted his coat collar.

Lestrade descended the stairs, running a hand through his newly cropped, silvering haircut. "We're a bit stuck on a case," he explained, in his gruff, gravelly voice. "It's a murder, a young girl. Crawford Street."

"Yes, we – I mean, _I_ was just nearby." Sherlock resisted the urge to look back at Jim, who no doubt was listening intently. "What's unusual about it then?"

"Well, her name was Helena Adamson-Smith," Greg began. "Third floor, no signs of forced entry. The window was open just a crack. She was in her bedroom – killed by a bullet wound to the temple. No sign of the murderer."

"Interesting, but…" _Do I really have time to go on a case like this?_

Moriarty dropped something with a clatter.

Hearing the noise, Sherlock couldn't help but instinctively spin around, and found himself meeting the criminal's gaze. Jim had dropped his phone on purpose, and was now gesticulating wildly at Sherlock, eyes wide. He quickly mouthed words at him: _Helena Adamson-Smith – take the case – say yes – take the case!_

"Yes, I'll take the case," Sherlock told Lestrade immediately. _I wonder what this is about… Helena Adamson-Smith? Never heard of her._

Greg's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thanks, mate."

As he headed to the door, Sherlock raised a hand to stop him.

"On one condition."

_If I can tell John,_ he thought firmly to himself, _I can tell Lestrade. He'll find out eventually anyway._

The worried crease had reappeared between the inspector's eyebrows. "What is it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"There's… someone… I need to bring with me."

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise, then a disbelieving smile swept across his handsome, boyish features. "What, is it that _Jim_ guy the papers are going mad over?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _So he's seen the article too. _"Well… yes," he answered hesitantly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Well, what d'you know? I hadn't thought there was any truth in that. But, uh…" He shrugged. "Yeah, it's fine, bring him along. Won't be breaking more rules than I already am."

"But Greg, it's…" The detective sighed, biting his lip and avoiding his gaze. "Um… the thing is…"

"…_I'm_ Jim."

Moriarty appeared in the gap between Sherlock and the doorway, standing casually with his hands in his pockets. His face was earnest, a friendly smile across his features.

Sherlock felt a stab of muted annoyance. _He's never going to let me be the one to introduce him, is he?_

Lestrade's face slowly paled in shock as he recognised the consulting criminal. He took a step back with a gasp, disbelief battling against fear to possess his features. Words failed him.

"I'm sorry, Greg." Like it had been with John, Sherlock's voice was unexpectedly calm and steady. "Moriarty and I have… business to attend to, so he's going to have to be staying with me for quite a while."

"Nice to see you again, inspector." Jim raised a hand in a salute. "You don't have to arrest me this time."

Lestrade gaped silently for a few more moments before his brain functions kicked in; in his state of shock, they reset to default and instructed his body to opt for the most appropriate action in the situation.

He slowly lifted his hands to his face, and facepalmed.

Jim and Sherlock exchanged an amused glance. Well, it was one way of letting the news sink in.

Greg buried his face in his hands, rubbing fingernails against his temples, as though attempting to block out the whole world and make it stop existing. He exhaled for the longest time, allowing the horrible mixture of shock, exasperation and _I-don't-even-know-anymore_ to seep out.

It took a while longer for him to find the right words.

"Do I even… _want_… to know?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologised again, helplessly.

Lestrade tried to remove his hands from his face, but apparently facing the real world would still require too much effort.

"Don't mind me. I'm not the murderer _this_ time." Jim rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing lightly. The touch was comforting. "I only want to help."

"Oh, whatever!" Lestrade ripped his palms away and gave a short, defeated huff. "You faked _your_ death too?" A quick burst of weak laughter. "Well, come along then, whatever – Oh my god! I don't even – You know what? Just –" He rubbed his eyes again, blinking hard. "Go on. Whatever Sherlock says. Go on."

"_Thank_ youuu!" With a charming grin, Moriarty tugged on Sherlock's shoulder to make him step elegantly to the side, freeing the doorway.

Shaking his head, Greg took slow, laborious steps towards the police car, fumbling in his jacket pocket to find the keys. He kept shooting quick, helpless glances at Jim, each time snapping his gaze away looking like he'd tasted something sour.

The car door swung open. Lestrade stood staring blankly at the interior before coming back to his senses.

"Uh, yeah. Go on in." Another regrettable peek at Jim. "You too."

Moriarty clambered in first, his hand sliding down to hold Sherlock's and tugging him in beside him. Sherlock was too busy filing away Lestrade's reaction to be bothered. _So someone with his character traits and his situation would react like this… whereas someone with John's traits would react like he did. _He then began to ponder other methods of revealing Jim to his friends.

"We could've just _walked_ there, inspector," Jim said aloud, allowing a false whine into his soft voice. He flashed the rapt detective a quick, cheeky smile.

"It's standard procedure," Lestrade mumbled in response. The knuckles gripping the steering wheel were white. "…Not that any of this is _standard_."

"Are the murdered girl's fathers home?" Jim asked abruptly.

"One of them is – wait," Lestrade spun around momentarily, frowning in disbelief. "How do _you_ know she has two dads?"

"Because I do," he stated dismissively, before turning back to Sherlock. "Well, we're heeere, Sherly!"

Looking slightly miffed at the response to his own question – or rather, the lack of it – Greg parallel-parked before a line of flats, beside another police car placed there. The front door of one of the buildings was wide open, yellow police tape visible within it declaring POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Lestrade opened the car door for them again, his gaze fixed firmly upon the building where the crime had taken place.

"Come along, then…" He paused, bit his lip, then coarsely added, "…both of you."


	8. Chapter 9

Rich red hair spilled around the girl's fallen figure like blood. Her green eyes, framed by long, curling lashes, stared sightlessly at the ceiling, rosy lips slightly parted. She had been beautiful, freckles adorning her button nose, slender limbs splayed out at unnatural angles. She had fallen slightly on her side. The cause of her death was obvious: a round, neat bullet hole in the centre of her forehead, from which blood slowly trickled out. An excellent, long-distance shot.

As Jim inspected the body beside him, Sherlock's thoughts strayed to Anderson and Donovan.

Lestrade had begun to explain the situation to them, but Moriarty – being the drama queen he was – obviously had to intervene, revealing himself to them on his own terms. Namely by grabbing Donovan by the arm and, with an unfaltering, wolfish smile, telling her in detail what his agents would do to her family if she breathed a word of his reappearance to anyone. Sherlock had watched in amusement; the criminal was highly convincing, despite knowing full well that all of his threats were bluffs.

Jim had ended the terrorising session with a nonchalant glance at Anderson and a generic "that goes for you, too". The unfortunate two still hadn't quite regained the ability to talk, and were now downstairs with one of the girl's fathers.

The window, as Greg had mentioned earlier, was opened just a crack. Before it stood a chair facing a desk on the adjacent wall; the girl had clearly been seated there when she was shot, judging by the blood dripping slickly over it.

Sherlock walked over and, without opening the window further, inspected the outside view. The apartment was like many in the area: old, slightly decorated, middle-class. A grove of trees stood to the left side of the opposite street. A car drove along the road and disappeared round the corner; a man exited one of the flats, took a questioning glance at the police cars parked along the street, and began to walk away. Other than that, the place was deserted.

Sherlock smirked. This was too easy.

"The murderer shot her through the window," he declared.

Lestrade frowned at him. "What?"

"It's _obvious!_" The detective gestured at him to come closer; Jim followed Greg as they stepped over the cooling corpse to observe the view.

"But the window wasn't open wide enough," the inspector began. "And if she was sat at the desk, how come the bullet wound was in her forehead and not the side of her head?"

"She must have turned to look at him," Jim explained for him. His gaze met Sherlock's, and he gave him a brief, smug smile. "She must have seen him before. Perhaps she was watching him leave, or he called her name – not many people called Helena, so that'd attract her attention."

"Watching him leave?" Greg caught on sharply. "So, wait – the murderer was in here?!"

"Perhaps not in this _room_, but certainly in this building just before he killed her."

"How do you know this?!" He stared at the criminal in alarm. _Perhaps he even thinks Moriarty's the murderer._

Jim ignored him. "Is Charles Adamson still here?"

"Charles…? Oh. One of the fathers." Lestrade scratched his head. "Yeah. He's downstairs. Being treated for shock, of course, the poor man."

Moriarty had a knowing look in his eyes, which Sherlock caught on to. "I think," he said slowly, "we should go and interview him."

"That's the last thing he needs right now!" Greg exclaimed. "A psychopath and his boyfriend demanding to know things about his murdered daughter – that'd _kill_ him!"

"Hang on." Sherlock blinked at him. "You think Jim's my _boyfriend_?"

Lestrade gave him a withering glance. "Well, yeah."

"How come?!" _We didn't even – kiss or anything… He's not even my boyfriend!_

"You should take a look at yourselves," Greg responded bluntly. "In any case, an interview is out of the question."

"An interview would confirm the murderer!" Jim insisted. Sherlock was still puzzled. _You should take a look at yourselves?_

"What do you mean?" Lestrade said sharply. "You… you already know who the murderer is?"

"Almost certainly," Moriarty replied, his eyes daring the inspector to argue.

Greg simply sighed. "Oh, whatever." He turned to Sherlock. "You go with him downstairs. But… be gentle, eh?"

"He's _not_ my boyfriend," Sherlock found himself saying.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Greg gave him an appraising glance. "_Moriarty_, though… Just make sure he doesn't kill you while you fuck or whatever, alright?"

The detective cringed at the thought. _Sex is far too primitive – but for god's sake! Why won't he believe me?_

"Don't worry, I'll save that for later." With a wink at Greg, Jim grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him away.

_Oh no you won't_, Sherlock almost said, but stopped himself, unsure if he meant the killing or the sex.

The pair made their way downstairs, where a man sat at a table, head cradled in his hands. He was in his late thirties, lean and blond; he had clearly been athletic in his youth, but had now softened slightly. Sobs racked his body, tears dripping down his fingers. Donovan and Anderson sat on either side of him but, upon seeing Moriarty, leapt to their feet and backed swiftly away.

Sensing this, Charles Adamson looked up, green eyes still streaming. When he saw Jim, however, they widened, and he quickly struggled to stand.

"_Boss_," he gasped.

And all of a sudden it made sense. The location of the murder, Jim's reaction to girl's name, his knowing who the father was, his deciding Sebastian was the murderer – _this man was one of his agents._ How could Sherlock not have realised earlier?

Realising the detective had finally understood everything, Moriarty gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Charles.

"Sit back down, Adamson," he told him patiently. "You're in shock. All I need is for you to answer my questions, and I'll do everything I can."

Charles didn't take his eyes off Jim, and Sherlock noticed that they were filled with a strange kind of respect. No, it was far stronger than that – this was… _worship._

"Boss." The agent's voice was choked with tears, but full of devotion. "I didn't think you'd come back for me."

"First things first." Jim drew back the chair before Charles and sat down in front of him, indicating the spot beside him to Sherlock. The detective joined him. "When did Moran visit you?"

"About half an hour ago." Adamson completely ignored Sherlock, his awed attention trained fully on the consulting criminal. _He must be one of Jim's most powerful allies._ Further answers began to click into place. _If Moran visited Charles to ask for help in defeating Moriarty… yet he clearly revers Jim…_

"Did he ask for your help in capturing and killing me?"

A shudder ran through Charles at the thought. "Yes."

Jim offered him a small smile, which didn't escape Sherlock's notice. _Why is he being so… empathetic?_ He looked back and forth between them. _There's something going on here._

"And you didn't–"

"Of _course_ I didn't, boss!" Adamson cried out, almost manically. "I would _never_ – not for anything in the world would I ever betray you!"

"I know, Charles." Moriarty reached over and took his hand, squeezing it comfortingly before Sherlock's startled eyes. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

Charles's face crumpled again. "But when I refused, I – I never thought–"

"I'm so sorry this had to happen." Jim's voice was filled with seemingly genuine concern. "I really am. Moran has gone insane. He's sworn to destroy me."

"But _why?_" Charles sobbed. "_I_ never treated you like this. I never even dreamt of it."

_Hang on… '_I _never treated you like this'…?_

"A lot of things went wrong," Moriarty explained softly. "He couldn't handle all of it…"

"I haven't seen either of you in _years_," Adamson choked out. "And he _knew _I'd never agree. Why did he – why did he have to–" He broke down crying again.

Moriarty glanced over at Sherlock. "Do you think we've heard enough?"

_Absolutely not_. But he knew Jim was talking in terms of the case. "Yes."

"Thank you, Charles." Jim stood, leaning over to trace a thin line with his fingertips on the man's glistening cheek. Sherlock stared. "I promise we'll find Sebastian, Charles, and we'll make him pay for this."

Adamson looked up, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Thank you, boss."

Moriarty's expression actually softened. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."

"You too, boss." Charles bit his lip, before adding weakly – "Boss?"

"Yes?"

He looked over at Sherlock for the first time. "Is he…?"

He didn't need to finish the sentence for Jim to understand. "Not yet, but he will be," he replied with a smile, which quickly faded. "Promise me you'll stay strong."

The agent pursed his lips, fighting back the tears. "I promise."

Jim nodded. "If you ever need anything…"

"Thank you, boss."

Moriarty turned to Sherlock, who was absorbing the situation in bewilderment. "Let's go."

Wordlessly, they made their way back up the stairs to the crime scene. The detective took one glance behind him before he left, at the man who sat crying at the table with his head in his hands; the man who, somehow, had made Moriarty seem so… _human_.

"Go on." Lestrade stood with his notepad and pencil, looking for all the world like a student about to receive his exam syllabus.

"The murderer was Sebastian Moran," Sherlock began. "Used to be in the Army; the best sniper in England. As for the murder…" He clasped his hands together. "Half an hour ago, Moran had been speaking with Adamson downstairs. They reached a disagreement, and he stormed out of the house." He strode over to the window, gestured outside. "At this hour, the street is empty. Moran looks up and sees Charles's daughter in her third-floor bedroom. Her window is slightly open."

"You're not _possibly_ suggesting–"

"_Look_," Sherlock cut Greg off. "The grove of trees – he was right there. He saw a perfect opportunity, and took it. All he needed was to attract her attention."

"A shot like that is _impossible_," Lestrade scoffed. "Gravity itself was working against him!"

"His aim is perfect. He's expertly trained." Moriarty spoke for the first time. "Someone like Sebby'd enjoy the shot as a quick, perfect challenge."

"He probably called her name or something; she turned briefly; he used his lower angle to fire through the crack in the window." Jim nodded at Sherlock's explanation, adding, "He'd probably threatened Charles with the rifle, and tucked it inside his jacket to disassemble later, meaning it was at hand."

"So that's it then." Lestrade twirled the pen in his fingers. "He makes a miraculous shot and kills her in public."

"It's easier than it seems," Moriarty assured him.

_Coming from him, that's not exactly comforting_, Sherlock thought as Greg winced.

"Now, we get to what _really_ matters." The criminal spread his hands. "The _why_."

"Tell me, then." Lestrade's voice was filled with resigned exasperation at having to deal with two smug geniuses at once.

Jim caught his eye, gave him a twisted smile. "Why do you think?"

The inspector swallowed hard, scrambled for something off the top of his head. "Uh… well… Hate crime? Perhaps? He didn't approve of her… gay parents?"

Moriarty actually laughed aloud at that. Greg's cheeks reddened.

"The murder wasn't just a punishment," the criminal informed him, voice dipping silkily low. "It was a lesson to Charles."

"Why would he need a lesson?" Lestrade sounded even more annoyed than earlier.

"Adamson had refused to support Moran in a certain… _task_ he aimed to achieve." Jim sighed deeply. "Sebastian wasn't impressed, and left. When he saw the girl, he decided to employ a quick display of his power and brutality in order to force Charles into submission."

"So Helena had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time." Greg grimaced.

"Yes." Sherlock gathered his coat tighter around himself. "A highly unfortunate event."

"So we're looking for one Sebastian Moran, then?" Lestrade scribbled down further notes. "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes, but don't bother." Jim met Sherlock's eyes and motioned towards the door: _we should go soon._ "You won't ever catch him. He's far too well-trained."

"Well what do I tell her dads, then?" A brief expression of despair twisted Greg's features. "We can't just give up."

"Oh, no. We've a far better idea." Sherlock stepped back over the corpse, making his way over to the door before turning back to Lestrade. "Tell them that _we're_ going to find him. And that _we'll_ make him pay."

"Sherlock, I'm letting you in on a case, you _can't_ just–" Lestrade's protests were cut off short as the detective closed the door behind him, standing with Moriarty in the apartment's main corridor. There was nobody else about.

"Well, let's get back to Baker Street, then!" Jim chirped, reaching over to tug at Sherlock's sleeve. But the detective hesitated.

"Jim…" he tried.

"Yes, of course – you've got questions." Jim ran a hand through his ruffled hair, stuck his hands into his pockets and impatiently waited.

"Charles Adamson–"

"–was one of my agents, yes." He sounded bored.

A tense silence stretched out between them.

"Alright, _fine!_" Jim conceded with another weary sigh. "He and I _used_ to be a couple. _Waaay_ before Sebby. Like, twenty years ago or something."

Sherlock drew back a little, nodded. _I knew it_.

"We were _teens_!" Moriarty shrugged. "I'd only just started my criminal empire. He's been there from the very beginning."

"But if it was so long ago," Sherlock interjected, "why that… that _worship_ of you?"

"We broke up on good terms," Jim said nonchalantly. "I liked him. He'd helped me a bit during the early stages so I decided to look after him, y'know?"

"How?" A slightly bitter feeling had risen within Sherlock, which he couldn't quite name. It bothered him a little, but he ignored it.

"This and that." Moriarty gave him a bright smile, which only made him feel worse. "He met someone else, started a family; if he needed money, I'd give him some. If he needed to repay the odd favour, I'd do that for him. I just _helped_ a little."

"So you have a soft spot for him."

Jim flashed him a sly, sideways glance. "You jealous?"

_Jealous?_

"No," Sherlock mumbled. I'm not jealous. Why would I be?

Jim chuckled. "Oh, Sherly. You needn't be. You'll have it all once you let yourself."

"Let myself what?" His tone was a trifle sharper than he'd meant it to be.

"Let yourself have it _aaall!_" Jim sang unhelpfully.

It grated on Sherlock's nerves. _For god's sake, does he have to be so vague?_

Moriarty sighed prettily. "I'm staaarving. Can we fetch a bite to eat? We could go to Angelo's!"

"How do _you_ know about Angelo's?"

Jim ignored him, floating towards the open door. "Italian… mmm."

Sherlock had no choice but to follow. "No. We're going back home, and I'll ask Mrs Hudson to make us something."

Moriarty groaned in annoyance. "You spoilsport."

"Inconspicuous, remember?" Sherlock pointed out. "We can't go out in public like this. We'll be _recognised_."

"Ugh, whatever." Jim straightened his shirt, stretching it tightly over his muscles. Obviously it didn't escape the detective's attention; in fact, judging by Moriarty's sly little smile, was precisely for that reason. Sherlock looked away uncomfortably. _What the hell does he want, really?_

"Baker Street it is, then, O my master." Jim stepped out into the sunlight and spread his arms wide, basking in it. It was, after all, a rare event in Britain.

With a sigh, Sherlock began the walk back home.


	9. Chapter 10

"This isn't _lunch_," Jim complained. "This is _breakfast_."

Sherlock glanced down at the meal Mrs Hudson had prepared for them – or rather, for him. While his own plate held a delightful combination of sausages, mashed potatoes and buttered crumpets for him to pick at, Jim's vegetarian tastes had troubled the landlady, who had replaced the sausages with some basic scrambled eggs.

"I'm going to die of malnutrition," Moriarty continued to lament. "I don't have enough _protein_. I _knew_ we should have gone to Angelo's."

Sherlock ignored him. The criminal wasn't being serious and there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"As for Moran…" he began instead.

Jim froze for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened, the joking tone gone. "Yes?"

Sherlock pushed his plate away. Eating and digesting would only slow down his thought processes. "What do we do about him?"

"We find him," Jim replied simply. His own plate remained untouched; neither of them had eaten a morsel.

"How?"

Jim shrugged, but his stance was still defensive. "We'll find a way. It'll have to be pretty spectacular, though."

"That's not the point," Sherlock dismissed. "What do we do once we find him?"

Moriarty remained silent, staring down at his full plate. Sherlock leaned back in his armchair and waited.

"I'll talk to him," the criminal replied at last, still not meeting his eyes.

"_Then_ what?" Sherlock allowed exasperation into his tone. "Do we hand him over to the police?"

"Of course not!" Jim looked amused at the concept, but the light in his eyes quickly dimmed. "I'll… deal with him."

"Deal with him how?" The detective pressed further, ignoring Moriarty's obvious discomfort.

"When the time comes, we'll both see," Jim declared firmly. His tone was final: the discussion was closed.

Silence fell.

Sherlock's mind travelled back to Charles Adamson, and he relived the strange moments he'd witnessed: Moriarty taking the man's hand in his own; trailing his fingertips down his cheek; the soft look in his eyes and the comforting words he'd uttered.

Jim flitted through so many personalities. Watching him filled Sherlock with a strange fascination.

_Everything's just a game to him._ For the millionth time, he remembered their kiss – Jim's hand on his jawline, their lips crushed together, their tongues against each other. _He did that to shock John – but it wasn't just that, was it?_ Sherlock's pulse rose a little. _It was an experiment. To show me what he could give me and see how I would react. And my reaction surprised us both a little_.

But again his mind settled on the question: _what does he really want?_

Jim was a murderer, a psychopath, destructive and bored. His sole purpose was to mess with people's minds. He cared about no-one, not even himself. He felt nothing: everything was just a game.

The different personas were just another way for him to have fun.

…_Or were they?_

What if the personalities were more than just that?

A horrible thought occurred to him. _What if I'm wrong? What if the _psychopath_ is the fake one?_

And, like an unstoppable force, a whole catalogue of scenarios unfolded in his mind. Jim's excessive expressiveness from the very first moment they'd met. The way he'd seemed to genuinely care about Molly when playing Jim from IT, and about Kitty when playing Richard Brook. The way he'd flinched at being called a psychopath. The way he'd overreacted when he'd been called James. The careful lack of emotion when discussing Sebastian; the tenderness with which he'd comforted Charles. And above all, the tears in the night.

Not even Moriarty could fake that range of emotions so well.

_We're just alike, you and I._

A sudden wave of determination crashed through Sherlock.

_You've days ahead of you which you'll need to spend with him._ Capturing Moran would be even harder than expected, and other obstacles would soon lie in the way – other cases, New Year's Eve, John and Mary – not to mention his brother calling on him to resolve the panic Moriarty had caused. _You're allowing him to manipulate you, and you're doing nothing but panicking. _He allowed a grin to stretch across his face. _He wants your attention, so you know what? Give it to him. It's time to make your own moves. Two can play his game._

"What is it?"

Jim looked up with a curious smile, clearly wondering what Sherlock could be grinning about. The detective met his gaze with a touch of defiance.

_If he shocks you, shock him back. Make _him_ feel vulnerable; make _him_ feel confused._

_Starting from now._

"Nothing," he said aloud, a gleam in his eye. "Absolutely nothing at all."

Raising a perfect eyebrow, Moriarty leaned back, crossing his legs. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrest, presumably something by Bach.

"What _do_ you want, then, Jim?" Sherlock asked blatantly.

Jim blinked, and then – as the detective had predicted – his infuriating, mysterious demeanour was back. "I want you to admit it to yourself."

"Admit _what?_" Sherlock played along, forcing a hint of annoyance into his tone to make it convincing.

Moriarty laughed quietly. "Now _that_, Sherlock, would be telling."

_Here goes._

"And what if I gave it to you?"

There it was, what he'd been aiming for – a brief flash of bewilderment in Jim's eyes. It was only there for a split second, but it was enough.

_That's it. Surprise him._ He suppressed another smile. _I'm enjoying this._

"What do you mean?" Jim's sceptical, winning smirk didn't fade. He probably considered Sherlock's response a minor miscalculation, certainly not a game-changer.

"Why do you do it?" the detective fired at him quickly, pointedly ignoring his question.

Moriarty frowned. He knew for sure now that something was up. "Do what?"

Sherlock leaned forwards. "_Pretend_."

"I don't _pretend_," Jim scoffed, dismissively. His fingers had stopped tapping the rhythm. _He's tense. He doesn't want to show it but I can tell._

"Yes you do," Sherlock countered swiftly. "You pretend you're a psychopath who doesn't care about anything, not even himself. You pretend you're invincible. You do everything you can to play with people's minds, claiming it's because you're bored." A tense, deliberate pause. "…But we both know that's not quite true."

Stunned, Jim stared at him – but only for a moment.

"What makes you think it's all pretending?" he demanded, his tone slightly icy, but he forced out another laugh. "All those ordinary people are so _funny_, but eventually, I run out of things to do with them. What's wrong with a little destruction?" He, too, leaned forwards now. "It's either them or me."

"_Them or you_?" Sherlock pointed out immediately, seizing the opportunity. "What? So in the end, killing them is just a distraction to keep _you_ from killing yourself?"

Moriarty tried to interrupt, but Sherlock cut him off. "A true psychopath wouldn't care about any of that. He wouldn't seek something other than self-destruction if, like you, it was what he really wanted." He smirked at his opponent, before mimicking his sing-song style: "_Caught yooou._"

Jim's jaw was clenched tight. "There's nothing stopping me from killing you–"

"Oh, but there is. There _is_," Sherlock contradicted, his heart racing – he was on a roll. Moriarty was well and truly under his control now. "You're not a psychopath, you just _want_ to be one. That would stop you from caring. That'd stop all the _nightmares_." Jim's eyes widened with horror that Sherlock knew about them, but the detective pressed on. "_I'm_ not the one who needs _you._ I'm _your_ hope. You came to me when you needed help the most, when you were hurting the most, because you were hoping _I_ could save _you_."

Moriarty was speechless.

Sherlock felt fantastic.

"It's time to stop stalling, _James._" Sure enough, Jim flinched at the name. "Stop with the taunting, and start playing the game."

Moriarty sat there, wide-eyed, taking everything in – and then, to Sherlock's surprise, a slow, mocking smile spread across his features.

"So is _this_ how it's going to be?" He sounded almost... _amused_. "We both just… give in?"

"What do you mean, _give in?_" Sherlock's sense of victory was beginning to crumble. _Have I missed something?_

Jim shrugged. "Like you said – you've caught me. Now what do you intend to do?"

The detective felt a twinge of doubt. _What _do_ I intend to do?_

"If I hadn't… 'caught' you," Sherlock asked, his voice losing some of its strength, "What would you have done?"

The criminal sighed. "Oh, Sherlock, we bothknow what _I_ want from you." He stretched his neck, keeping his intelligent gaze locked onto his enemy's. "The question is, do _you_ want the same from _me?_"

_He's bluffing,_ Sherlock knew. _He doesn't expect me to do anything – if he did, he wouldn't say these things._

His heart began to beat a little faster.

_But if he can mess with my emotions, why can't I do the same with his?_

He stood up, having made his decision. _If it's just a game, then it's time for me to win._

As he'd half-expected him to, Jim also leapt to his feet. "Going anywhere?" he challenged, tauntingly.

With determination, Sherlock strode right over to him, only stopping when their faces were mere inches apart. His voice lowered into a snarl. "I don't _know_ what I want, Jim, and I doubt you do either."

Moriarty was clearly startled at the uncharacteristic invasion of space. He felt the armchair digging into his calves behind him as he craned his neck, questioningly meeting the detective's hostile gaze. "Then what are you going to do?" He paused, the dangerous next words on the tip of his tongue, before daring to say them aloud: "I'm not John."

And those words filled Sherlock with a burning red fury.

"This has _nothing to do _with John," he hissed, face leering over his enemy's. "Absolutely _nothing_ to do with him."

"It has _everything_ to do with him," Moriarty whispered back. A cold, calculated amusement lay in his eyes. "You're spiralling into depression because he never really loved you back. He left you, and you're–"

"I don't _care_ about John anymore!" Sherlock was shouting now, his hands slamming roughly onto the criminal's shoulders and nearly pushing him over. Jim clenched at his sleeves to keep himself from falling. "_Shut up _about John! This is about you and me–"

"And _his_ memory standing in the way!" Jim yelled back. His rage was beginning to appear. "And you _refuse_ to see beyond that–"

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE!" Sherlock roared, before grabbing his nemesis and smashing their lips together.

Jim froze for a moment in shock, eyes wide, but the detective sank his teeth into his lower lip, forcing the criminal's mouth open. Sherlock pressed himself savagely against him, making the smaller man trip and fall back into the armchair; but still he refused to break away, shoving Jim hard against the backrest while working his tongue into his mouth. It was messy, brutal and overpowering; Sherlock knew Moriarty's jaw must be aching beneath his iron grip, yet he continued nonetheless. Jim had recovered enough to start kissing him back, and both closed their eyes tight, crushing their tongues against each other with brutal, fury-driven force.

_I'm running out of air._ Sherlock forced himself to pause for a moment's breath before carrying on with his relentless attack. He was filled with a flaming, all-consuming determination to _defeat_ Moriarty, to _destroy _him the way he'd least expect it; and as he shoved his tongue further into his enemy's mouth, he saw the perfect opportunity and took it. He tore his hands away from the Jim's jawline and instead began to tug at his belt.

Jim let out a pained gasp at his clumsy, fumbling efforts. After ripping the belt's clasp undone, Sherlock used one hand to slam against Jim's collarbone, pushing him back against the chair and keeping him there with the sheer force of the kiss. With the other he yanked open Moriarty's zip, displaying the man's underwear.

Moriarty had recovered enough to react. His hands pressed weakly against Sherlock's chest to shove him away, but the detective was too strong – he was now beginning to drag his trousers down, exposing him further. Jim began to struggle, his feeble movements causing enough discomfort for Sherlock to pause and clamber fully on top of him, placing himself in a stronger position against the resistance. Jim was trying to pull away from the kiss but his opponent wouldn't let him – Sherlock was crushing him, he was powerless, he was helpless. A muffled cry for help rose in his throat but failed to make it past his assaulted mouth.

It was all too much. Memories were coming in flashes now – of him smashed against the floor, of a stronger man on top of him, forcing him down, keeping him down, ignoring his pleas and ripping his defences away–

_No–_

Sherlock was clawing at his shirt, ripping it upwards to expose his lean, muscular abdomen–

_NO–_

The hand pressing down on his collarbone shifted to his throat, starting to choke him – Sherlock began to use the other to fumble at his own jeans, tearing the clasp apart –

_NO!_

With sudden, insane force, Jim smashed his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders, sending the taller man toppling off-balance. But he knew, with despair, that it wouldn't fend him off for long.

"Sherlock, _please!_" he screamed while he still had the chance. To his shock, he realised tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Stop it! Please _stop it!_"

Sherlock froze–

–and then, with sudden horror, backed away.

Jim let out a sob at the release, weakly scrabbling into an upright position and fumbling to refasten his trousers. His hands were shaking; the tears wouldn't stop.

"Oh my god," Sherlock gasped, reality crashing back. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry–"

Moriarty blocked out the detective's voice, burying his head in his arms to weep. He tucked his knees up, shaking his head from side to side, and trembled, whimpering.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he'd just done.

_Oh my god._

_Jim, forgive me… _

"I lost my mind. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, dully. The sight of Jim's helpless breakdown – which _he'd _so cruelly caused – was breaking his heart. "Please, talk to me. I would never – oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jim ignored him, drawing deep, shuddering breaths amid his crying. He looked so frail, so broken, that Sherlock felt he would die of guilt.

_What have I done?!_

He had never felt so tortured, so lost. Tentatively, he crept closer, laying a hand softly on the man's arm. Jim made no reaction – which only seemed to make it all worse.

"Jim," he whispered. His vision, too, began to blur. "Jim, please. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Jim twisted his head to the side, away from Sherlock, tears still dripping down his cheeks. He sat huddled in the corner of the armchair, innocent and shattered.

"I didn't mean it. You _have_ to believe me," Sherlock desperately continued to try, his own voice trembling. "Please, talk to me. Forgive me."

No response but the awful sound of Jim's choked, ragged breaths.

Sherlock wavered for a moment and then – upon sudden impulse, not caring how aggressively Moriarty might react – wrapped his arms around him, letting the tears fall as he squeezed him tight. Jim remained unresponsive.

_What have I done? How _could_ I? What have I done?!_

A thousand thoughts streamed through Sherlock's mind as he held Jim in his arms – the man he'd made suffer, the man he'd almost destroyed – but only one tumbled past his lips, over and over, a begging mantra–

"_Forgive me._"

The _rage_ he'd felt, the _power_ – it made him feel sick. _And look what I've done. Look what I've done now. _He couldn't believe what he'd been thinking.

"_Forgive me, Jim." _

He _wanted_ Moriarty – of course he'd wanted him – but not like this. Never like this. _How could I do this?_

What would Jim do now? What could they do?

_What have I done?_

He hated himself. He _loathed_ what he'd done. He had lost all control and had only one hope left, which he repeated, again and again. He didn't care if Jim didn't hear him. He didn't deserve what he needed but begged for it nonetheless.

"_Forgive me…_"

[8]


	10. Chapter 11

It took Sherlock forever to realise that Jim had fallen asleep.

He pulled away gently, cheeks still wet with his crocodile tears. The criminal's breathing was deep and regular, eyes closed shut. He looked young, untroubled, innocent; the creases of fear and worry on his face had smoothed out. He lay limply in the armchair, the armrest pressed against his back. The position must have been uncomfortable, but Sherlock guessed Jim had been too worn out by the crying to mind.

He felt another pang of shame.

_I can't believe what I've done…_

He stood up, briefly stretching out the muscles which had been curled around Moriarty's hunched figure. At a loss, he flitted through his options. One thing was clear: _I can't just leave him here._

A deep, shuddering breath.

_He needs rest. I made him suffer; he needs rest…_

Heart hammering, he leaned over and – after more than just a moment's hesitation – softly snaked an arm behind Jim's back, placing the other beneath his knees. After checking Moriarty's breathing patterns remained unchanged, he slowly lifted him out of the chair.

Jim's sleeping face lolled to the side. He stirred a little, fingers twitching, but – mercifully – didn't wake.

Sherlock took several quick, shallow breaths, struggling feebly with the man's dead weight. Jim wasn't too heavy; it was surely enough for him to handle. _This is the least I can do for him._

With uncertain, laborious steps, he began to carry Jim towards the bedroom, trying as hard as he could to make the transition gentle and without any sudden jolts. Every few seconds, he glanced down at his load, hardly believing what he was doing.

_What am I doing? I've made a mistake. This will only make everything worse…_

Streaks remained on Jim's gorgeous face from the tears he'd spilled. Looking at them hurt – which is why Sherlock forced himself to do just that, constantly reminding himself of the devastating crime he'd committed.

He shifted uncomfortably to nudge the door open with his shoulder.

A square of light fell from the doorway upon his disorganised bed, sheets strewn everywhere. Dragging his feet through the gloom, he strengthened his hold on Moriarty's body before delicately lowering his opponent onto the soft mattress. After a pause, he tentatively extricated his arms from beneath him. Jim's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.

Sherlock allowed himself a deep breath. _There. I made it._

A sudden weariness and exhaustion rushed through him. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with Jim's form stretched out before him, somehow blissfully containing the turmoil within the criminal's mind.

His eyelids were heavy from his own crying; he rubbed at them, blinking hard. _Don't fall asleep_, he chastised himself._ You don't deserve it._

One of Jim's legs stretched out as he subconsciously sunk deeper among the sheets, his bare foot brushing against Sherlock's thigh. The detective felt a jolt where it had touched him – but that was quickly smothered by the pure, throbbing guilt rising within him again.

_I'm a monster._

That sickening _rush_ he'd felt, that _rage_…

For the thousandth time, he mouthed his plea, face contorted in desperation –

_Forgive me, Jim._

A sudden thought occurred to him. It was stupid, pathetic, and entirely futile – but now, he was beyond caring about all that.

He brought his shaking hands together and, for the first – and, probably, the last – time in his life, he looked up towards the heavens.

_Religion is irrational._ God was nothing more than a fantastical myth created by ignorant human beings as an excuse to divert blame from themselves and give them a false sense of control over their futures.

And yet – just this once – he allowed himself the benefit of the doubt.

_God, I… I know I've never believed in you. _He struggled to direct his thoughts towards the whimsical deity. _But if – by some bizarre, insane, impossible chance – you really are up there…_

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes tight.

_Do one thing for me,_ he silently begged. _Just one thing._

Reopening them, he glanced once more at Jim's sleeping figure in the dim light.

A shudder ran through him. The mere thought of his former blind rage filled him with horror. Moriarty's screams echoed through his mind – _Stop it! Please STOP IT!_

He squeezed his clasped, intertwining hands until his knuckles were white. His eyes snapped back closed.

Feverishly, he ended his frantic prayer.

_Please, whatever it takes, just bring Jim back to me._

_Above all, let him forgive me._

_Let him forgive me…_

"Sherlock."

The voice was soft and mild. Sherlock stirred a little, and then – with a jolt – his eyes shocked open.

It took him a moment to realise he was lying on the edge of the bed. He cursed himself. _I must have fallen asleep…_

His eyes flickered over to the voice's source – and he immediately jerked upright.

_Jim's awake._

Moriarty sat cross-legged on the mattress before him, watching him; his face was unreadable. Sherlock's heart began to stutter.

_This is it,_ he thought apprehensively, panic threatening to overcome him. _This is where he either forgives, or forgets me._

His throat was a desert; he swallowed, but his voice remained hoarse. "Jim."

Their eyes met. Silence fell.

Sherlock felt the constant fear and guilt would tear his mind apart. "Jim, I'm sorry," he breathed, for the millionth time. "I'm so, so sorry. Talk to me."

The criminal took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The waiting was killing Sherlock.

"Please, Jim." He sat up straighter, shifting his weight so he was kneeling facing Moriarty. "I can't believe what I did. I'll never… I…" He hung his head in shame. "I'll never, ever hurt you like that again. Ever."

"I know," Jim stated simply.

Sherlock raised his head sharply, pulse spiking. A tiny spark of hope lit up within him.

Jim reached out and placed a hand on his enemy's shoulder. Sherlock seemed to melt beneath his touch, visibly relaxing, an expression of both pain and anticipation flitting across his face.

Using the hand to pull him slightly closer, Jim leaned over and placed a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

It was fleeting, their lips only touching for the slightest second, but it was enough.

Immeasurable relief and joy crashed through Sherlock.

_He's forgiven me._

Jim pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Sherlock could feel his breath mingling with his own. It thrilled him. _He's forgiven me – I can't believe it! He's forgiven me…_

"_I'm_ sorry, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured, his hand sliding upwards from the detective's shoulder to tenderly grasp his neck, just beneath his jawline. "I overreacted…"

"No," Sherlock whispered fiercely back. "Don't apologise. It's my fault. It was all my fault."

"You couldn't have known." Jim broke away a little, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's again. They were full of tender compassion.

"Known what?" Sherlock asked timidly. His heart still raced with the joy and disbelief. _He's giving me another chance I don't even deserve._

Jim turned his head a little to the side, his expression growing grim. Sherlock felt a stab of fear. _Oh no. Have I done things wrong again?_

"The thing is, Sherlock…" Jim sighed heavily, stalling. A slightly haunted look had crept into his dark eyes. He paused for the longest time, trying to put things into words; Sherlock leaned forwards attentively.

"You deserve to know," Moriarty decided at last, more to himself than to his opponent. Before he began, however, he flashed Sherlock a fearful glance. "But promise you won't change the way you think of me."

"Promise," Sherlock told him firmly, and waited.

Jim sighed again, running a hand through his messy bedhead. "I've been raped," he confessed bluntly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth forming an _O_ of surprise. His vocal chords automatically kicked in, warbling. "I'm – I'm so sorry–"

"Don't be," Jim cut him off. His voice was slack and deadened. "Let's say I… I didn't come from a… _conventional_ family. We were always poor. My father was–" He faltered a little, but forced himself to keep on going. "He was… an alcoholic. I was his youngest son."

"Your _father_," Sherlock gasped. He couldn't begin to imagine how horrifying that must have been.

Jim shrugged it away. "It was… once a month, perhaps twice. He wasn't home much."

_Once a month?!_ "A-and for how long did this go on?"

Moriarty averted his gaze. Quietly, he revealed, "About nine years…"

"_Nine years?!_" Sherlock's voice rose in shock, but he quickly dimmed it down, aware of the criminal's distress. He couldn't fathom it. _Raped for nine years. Jesus fucking Christ…_

"I was _young_!" Jim added with a hint of desperation. "I was only seven, I didn't really… know what was going on."

Sherlock shook his head in sheer horror, his mind still struggling to process the information. "Oh my god, Jim, I… I really am sorry."

"You couldn't have known!" Jim reassured him. "And I'm… I'm over it. Really." A small, half-hearted smile. "I've fucked Seb enough times for that."

Sherlock offered a mandatory, empty smile in return, but his guilt had simply intensified. "But I… what I did, did I…" He trailed off with a grimace.

"…Bring it all back?" Jim glanced down and away, shyly. "A… a little bit, yes."

_Oh god no. _"I'm so sorry–"

"I know you are, Sherlock." Jim met his gaze, which now brimmed with tears. "And that's why I forgive you."

Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "…Really?"

"Of course." The hand on his neck squeezed lightly. "He never was. You're nothing like him, and I know you didn't mean it. I forgive you." Before Sherlock could stammer out thanks, Moriarty's voice dipped a little lower. "And besides… I'd only resisted in the first place because… well." He shook his head slightly. "Because I didn't want you to regret anything."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock placed a hand onto the criminal's, rubbing his fingers over their slightly rougher surface.

"You're a virgin, Sherlock." Jim pointed out gently. "And that's important. That's something you shouldn't ever have ripped away from you. Not until it _really_ matters."

Sherlock swallowed. "Why didn't you think it mattered?"

"You were so _angry_." Moriarty winced at the memory. "Even the kissing – it was all just to get back at me."

The detective couldn't deny it. He remained silent.

"Your objective was to shock me and be powerful for once." Jim sighed forlornly. "That's never a good reason to throw that innocence away, and you would have regretted it when it was too late."

Sherlock watched him in the semi-darkness, his eyes following the curves of his toned figure; the man's touch on his neck felt electric. He lowered his own voice. "And what would be a… _good_ reason?"

"Attraction. Lust. Mutual desire," Moriarty responded immediately.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the man's plump, parted lips. He felt an odd rush in his ears. _Attraction… desire…_

He lifted his hands and, with incredible delicacy, positioned them on the criminal's jaw. Their eyes met. Sherlock steadied his breaths – he was nervous. Really nervous.

"Like this, then?" he whispered.

He brought his face closer and closer to Jim's until their lips actually met, light as feathers against each other before Sherlock gently began to increase pressure on them. He let Moriarty's mouth open on its own terms, letting his tongue dance lightly on the man's lower lip before carefully trailing in. With the utmost care, he slowly massaged his tongue against Jim's, letting the kiss stretch out long and tender. His eyes drifted closed; now, there was none of the heat, anger or desperation he had been surging with before – just the sweet, loving feeling of their mouths against one another. And as the yielding moments passed, Sherlock found a different kind of warmth filled him; a soft, satisfying warmth curling around his mind and heart, leading to a plethora of different sensations altogether.

And as he absorbed everything in, he thought to himself – _I really _do_ want this._

Eventually, they broke apart, eyes reopening to gaze into each other in an almost breathless wonder.

"Like that," Jim replied at last.

Sherlock kissed him again the same way, this time easing him down onto the mattress so that the detective was sitting on top of his stomach. Sherlock never shifted too much of his weight onto Jim, careful not to be forceful or in any way commanding – but in the end it didn't really matter. Moriarty stretched his arms around his back and enveloped him into a hug, pressing Sherlock's head to his chest; they huddled together, bodies pressed tightly against each other. Sherlock heard his opponent's heart beating fast and loud.

"Jim…" he murmured.

Jim placed a hand onto his curls, ruffling them slightly. His voice was husky. "…Sherlock?"

The detective closed his eyes. "Attraction," he repeated, dully.

Moriarty laughed softly, his hand caressing Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes," was all he said.

Another silence fell, filled with the rise and fall of Jim's chest beneath Sherlock.

"Jim… I _want_ this," Sherlock finally confessed.

The caressing stopped. Sherlock struggled to lift himself up onto his shoulders so that their eyes could meet.

"I _do_," he insisted before the criminal could argue. "And it's not… _anger_. And it's not power."

"That doesn't mean you should, Sherlock." Jim's eyes were filled with uncertainty. "You have to wait for the right reason. For when it really matters."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him again, briefly. He was undeniably aroused – they both were. But that had never mattered before. Now, for the first time, he felt certain of what he wanted – and wasn't afraid.

"And now, I think…" Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over Jim's cheek. "It really does matter."


	11. Chapter 12

Planting a light kiss on Jim's unresisting neck, Sherlock rolled off the criminal to lie by his side, keeping his arm wrapped around his enemy's form. Their gazes met with burning intensity.

"Are you sure?" Moriarty whispered.

Sherlock's heart was beating almost impossibly fast.

"I'm sure," he replied firmly, his hand on Jim's shoulder sliding upwards to intertwine with the man's ruffled dark hair.

_I'd never dreamt of doing this with anyone but John_. A helpless smile spread across his face as he lost himself in the pits of Jim's eyes. _And now it's Moriarty, of all people._

But there was no denying the craving he was feeling for the consulting criminal. By now he was uncomfortably hard, and a quick glance at Jim's crotch showed his opponent was faring no better.

Jim placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, using his thumb to brush against the detective's upper jaw. "You really are so gorgeous," the soft Irish tones crooned. "I can hardly believe you've never done this before."

"Teach me," Sherlock breathed. Jim's voice had sent shivers down his spine – and had only made his urges stronger than ever.

But to his dismay, a light frown tainted Moriarty's flawless features. "Think things through, Sherlock." Concern welled up again in his gaze. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

"I won't!" With a hint of impatience, Sherlock leaned over to kiss him again, relishing the feeling of his tongue against Jim's. He lifted a leg and hooked it over the criminal's waist, pressing their groins together: the faint contact was still enough to make him gasp, and feel more desperate than ever.

Moriarty's eyes had widened at the touch, his pupils dilating. "You can still change your mind," he insisted, but his voice was slightly strained – his self-control was beginning to slip.

_Perfect_. Then another thought occurred to Sherlock. _Soon he won't be able to keep up the acting – soon I'll see him for what he really is._

For now, though, he needed to satisfy his own desires. "Clothes," he stated breathlessly.

Holding his gaze for a moment longer, Jim gave in at last and his hands reached for the buttons down Sherlock's front. Before Sherlock knew it all of them were undone and his bare chest was visible; he quickly slid out of his dress shirt, watching Jim's eyes glide appreciatively over his topless form. With another kiss he readjusted his leg around his enemy, the friction between their bodies becoming unbearable. _God, that feels good. And we haven't even started yet._

Sex had never been of significance to Sherlock. He'd watched porn three times as research, of the three main sexualities, but it had all seemed pretty pointless. He knew he was attracted to men and not women – he'd known _that_ since the age of twelve – but had always been able to shove it aside. And yet now, there was a… _hunger_ in him, a throbbing _desire_ that demanded to be felt.

Moriarty was beautiful. That much was obvious. His features were perfect, his body sublime; his supple movements were filled with predatory charm that only equalled the acuteness of his mind. In short, he was the most stunning man Sherlock had ever met.

His fingers now reached beneath his enemy's shirt to spread ceaselessly across his abdomen, reaching upwards to brush against his fine collarbones. Then, with a yank, he pulled the shirt off Jim's lean torso.

For a moment, Sherlock leaned over him, pressing their bare chests together while passionately attacking his mouth – but too soon, the feeling of hot skin against skin, wet lips against lips, wasn't enough.

Jim acted first, his hands slipping towards Sherlock's belt and expertly unclasping it. Next was his zip, which yielded easily, allowing him to swiftly remove his trousers – although it was with some reluctance that Sherlock detached his leg from around Jim's waist. Tossing the abandoned clothes off the side of the bed, he sat up for a moment longer – naked if not for his flimsy underpants – to gaze down at Moriarty strewn on his mattress.

His voice was akin to a growl. "Your turn."

He reached for Jim's belt but the criminal caught his hands, their eyes meeting briefly.

"Let me do it," Jim murmured.

With exaggerated annoyance, Sherlock forced himself to lean back and wait. Not that he had to wait long – his opponent was efficient, hastily taking off his own belt and jeans to match Sherlock's state of undress. Before throwing his clothes onto the floor, however, he stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket, searchingly.

Sherlock smothered a knowing smirk as he saw what Jim dug out. _Well, of course he's come prepared,_ he told himself. _He probably just didn't expect it to happen this way._

Dropping his bundle of clothes over the edge, Jim turned to him with a wolfish smile. The pair regarded each other calculatingly.

The detective's pulse was erratic, his breathing forcibly shallow. His eyes flickered over Jim's bare, muscular form.

He wouldn't be able to resist for much longer.

"Jim…"

Moriarty threw himself onto Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and coaxing him onto his back with a fierce kiss. Their bodies were close, so close, and a strange buzzing was filling Sherlock's ears – a hormonal overbalance perhaps – but he wanted _more_, so much more, yet even now there were clothes in the way –

He stretched his hands out and pushed down on his underwear, feeling it drag a little lower but still not enough – he felt a wetness at his fingertips which it took him a moment to realise was pre-cum. Jim, sensing what he was doing and dying to do the same, tugged one arm free and shoved at his own pants as well, his being on top allowing them to be removed more easily. Sherlock felt Moriarty's hard member brush against his inner thigh – the wet touch was electric, spurring his movements, forcing him to tear more desperately at the clothing until at last they were both naked and clutching hungrily at each other.

Jim's teeth bit down on his neck and began to suck. Sherlock gasped – this was pure cruelty, the constant dissatisfaction pure agony. He was harder than he'd ever been in his life and god, it _hurt_. He reached blindly for Jim's cock, tried to grab it but was too clumsy; Moriarty shuddered at the attempt, leaking slightly onto the detective's hand.

"_Wait_," he gasped, trailing his tongue along Sherlock's jawline before sliding it back into his mouth.

As much as he enjoyed the kissing, the tension within Sherlock was unbearable – he forced himself to break away and voice his pleas. "I _can't_," he groaned, pityingly. "_Do_ it, Jim."

And Jim obliged. Pulling himself upwards, he placed a hand on Sherlock's collarbone to flatten the detective beneath him.

He forced his tone to become authoritative despite his heavy breathing. "Since this is your first time… I'll top."

"I don't care, just _do it!_" Sherlock wailed. The sight of Jim on top of him, breathless and wild, was driving him insane. _Oh, god, this is better than any high._

Shakily, Jim unscrewed the tube he'd kept in his palm and squirted lubricant all over his hand, before applying it rapidly to his stiff, glistening cock. "Hold still, Sherlock." His voice lowered seductively, torture to Sherlock's ears, as he regained some control over himself. "Spread your legs."

Sherlock did so, wrapping them around Moriarty's middle in a weak attempt to bring the two of them closer together. Jim, of course, resisted, staring instead at his opponent's entrance.

"This might hurt," he sighed, his lips inching lovingly closer towards his enemy's, "but not for long, I promise."

And before Sherlock could think of a witty retort, he _felt _it. First one finger, then two, probing at his entrance and stretching it open, slick and invasive. Christ, it _hurt_ – but, understanding the theory behind it, he forced himself to relax. Suddenly, Jim's fingers hit his prostrate, and he gave an involuntary jerk at the shocking euphoria that brought. A slow moan slipped from his lips, then was snatched away as Jim did it to him again.

"Th-that's it." Moriarty's voice was trembling. He was struggling to contain himself – but not for much longer.

Sherlock opened his eyes as Jim abruptly removed his fingers, almost wincing at the change. He felt deprived, a hollow emptiness where they had been – yet that was soon replaced by something else entirely.

"Oh my _god_," Sherlock hissed as Jim's cock slowly pushed through him. The criminal's eyes drifted closed as he shoved himself all the way in, only to reopen and gaze deep into Sherlock's shocked, wide ones as he pulled back again, this time more sharply.

Sherlock groaned his name as Jim slammed forwards again, feeling the man's fingers digging hard into his shoulders. He let out an incoherent whimper as Jim narrowly missed his prostrate – _on purpose, of course, the bastard_ – and wrapped his arms around Jim's neck to steady himself, while widening and tightening the grip of his legs on Moriarty's waist. His mind was filled with nothing but the burning elation of their bodies against each other, _in _each other, and he threw his head back in the bliss, letting his curls splay out over the pillow.

Jim began to increase his pace, more accurate now – no, _deadly_ in his accuracy – and Sherlock began to jerk and judder at every advance. The bedsprings creaked in protest as he was slammed into the mattress with ever increasing force, again and again and again – Jim's breaths sharp and heavy, becoming mixed with tiny grunts and groans of pleasure – Sherlock losing himself in the heavenly roughness of it all, forcing his hips upwards to meet each push with a moan.

And just as he thought things couldn't get better, Jim's hand closed around his cock and began sliding up and down in rhythm with the thrusts below.

Sherlock let loose a strangled cry at the sheer paradise, the palm moving up and down his shaft bringing with it every sensation of ecstasy he'd never known. A particularly powerful spike of pleasure cut off all his thoughts, filling him instead with a scorching, fiery bliss, their thighs slapping against each other, Jim's hand pumping ceaselessly as he sawed in and out. There was a sensation growing within Sherlock, something of terrifying intensity, needing, _aching_ to break free – each thrust brought it ever closer, and soon his cries became louder, more frequent, more urgent – Jim's groans and moans began to echo his own and he sped up, faster and faster, hammering brutally into Sherlock while his fingertips lashed at the tip of his shaft. Sweat trickled down the back of Sherlock's neck as he arched himself against his enemy, craving every lunge, and then suddenly Moriarty's lips were against his and their tongues were pressing against each other and he could do nothing but abandon all control.

A scream burst through him at the overwhelming force of his climax, his entire body juddering and stiffening as white streaked from his cock and splattered all over their stomachs. He spasmed at the burning waves of exhilarating glory, rocking on the mattress, and stiffened, his grip on Moriarty suddenly tightening – and, howling his name at the top of his lungs, the criminal arched his back and joined him at their rapturous summit, surging and spilling endlessly into Sherlock until they were both so blinded they forgot their own names.

They lay there, panting, for what felt like an age.

Haltingly, with ridiculous care, Jim extracted himself from Sherlock, pulling their sweating, shuddering bodies apart. Sherlock's cock still twitched in remembrance of the heaven it had just breached. His eyes were heavy, his breathing slowly steadying as the rush of endorphins ebbed away.

Jim collapsed onto the bed beside him, and together they stared blankly up at the white ceiling, lost for words.

Jim's wet hand reached for Sherlock's and their fingers locked together, the criminal turning his head to the side to gaze wonderingly at his stunned nemesis.

"Sherlock," he breathed, his voice catching.

Sherlock sluggishly twisted his own head to meet Jim's eyes. He couldn't bring himself to speak – what he'd felt was indescribable.

"That," he finally whispered, "was amazing."

Moriarty grinned back. "Want to do it again?"

The mere thought of reliving all that sent shivers of anticipation down his spine. But the sex had also exhausted him – he didn't want to move; all he wanted now was to lie beside Jim, close his eyes, and lose himself in the heat and constancy of his lover's embrace.

Jim didn't give him a chance to answer, instead reaching over and pressing their lips into another kiss. Sherlock relaxed into it, the now familiar sensation sweet and comforting.

"You don't have to answer that yet," Jim told him softly as they broke apart, his mouth stretching into an unreadable half-smile. "But tell me, do you regret it?"

Sherlock blinked hard. He was too overcome by his experience to think straight. _How do I feel about Jim?_ he asked himself, struck once again by the complexity of his feelings. _Do I… do I actually _love_ him?_

Of course, what they'd just done indicated that they did, but in the end – was this all just another part of Jim's game? Or rather, of _their _game?

His eyes bored deep into Moriarty's questioning gaze.

Just remembering what they'd done was making his heart stutter.

He swallowed. _Well, right now, at least he's given me an easy question to answer._

"No," he murmured, his voice hoarse and cracked but his creeping grin intact. "I don't regret it at all."


	12. Chapter 13

It was strange; getting up, cleaning up, putting clothes back on; moving on with life as though nothing had happened. As though Sherlock hadn't just let Jim fuck him on his bed, then fallen asleep with their naked forms wrapped around each other.

As Sherlock finally redid the top button of his dress shirt, he stopped to turn to his beautiful enemy. Their gazes met, and a smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

_I still can't quite believe it,_ he mused. _How did we come to this?_

"We should go out for dinner," the criminal suggested.

Sherlock frowned, the smile vanishing. "Be'll be recognised," he hurriedly pointed out. He felt a strange aversion to going out in public – as though people would recognise his newfound loss of virginity on sight. It was stupid, and he tried to push it away, but somehow couldn't.

"So what?" Jim purred, running a hand through his hair. "I doubt many people'll see us anyway. It's a dark evening, so as long as we move quickly and keep our heads down…"

"But it's far too risky!" Sherlock insisted, grasping for excuses.

Moriarty quietened him with a disarming grin. "Oh, Sherlock..." He sighed lovingly. "Can you blame me for wanting to _commemorate_ the occasion?"

So that was how, half an hour later, they found themselves at a table at Angelo's, raising glasses of Italian red wine to sip at. Jim's eyes crinkled up in a smile as his gaze met Sherlock's over the rim of his glass.

"I told you they wouldn't recognise us," he murmured at his nemesis, lowering it from his lips.

Sherlock smirked in return. The wine was good, leaving a fruity tang in his mouth. He wondered absent-mindedly if he would taste it in Jim's later.

Angelo had greeted him warmly the moment he'd entered, flashing a sly, calculating glance at Jim, before instantly procuring the wine as a welcoming gift. "'Ts more romantic," he'd whispered to Sherlock with a wink.

"You know," the criminal now began, "usually people go on dates first, have sex, and _then_ move in together."

"Is that what this is then?" Sherlock asked wryly. "A _date_?"

Jim raised an impressive eyebrow. "Is that what you want it to be?"

The detective considered. _Well, I don't see why not,_ he decided. _If we're actually going to pursue a relationship, I don't see any other way to do it._

"What do _you_ think?" he asked him in return, clasping his slender hands.

Moriarty chuckled. "A date it is, then." He hesitated, pursing his lips. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"How about we start over?"

Sherlock blinked. "…What do you mean?"

"Let's start from the beginning." Jim lowered his voice, giving him a seductive little smile. "Start over, follow the right steps. Make it a proper…_courtship_."

Sherlock leaned forward, considering it. "Would we really settle for something so… ordinary?"

"You tell me." Jim's dark eyes bored into his.

"Sherlock!" a hearty voice declared behind them.

Sherlock felt a firm hand thump his shoulder as he turned to look up at Angelo, grinning cheerfully at him.

"Hello again, Angelo," he said courteously, offering a harmless smile in return.

"You haven't been here for a while!" the restaurant owner declared, before his gaze switched to Moriarty. After a slight pause, a familiar, sly note entered his voice. "So who's this?"

"Angelo, this is Jim." Sherlock paused, waiting to see if the man would recognise his companion – but evidently he rang no bells. The detective carried on. "Jim, I met Angelo when–"

"This man got me off a _murder_ charge!" Angelo cut him off with a dramatic whisper to Jim. "If it weren't for him, I've had ended up in _prison!_"

"You did end up in prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"Only for housebreaking," Angelo dismissed. "So, as always, Sherlock – anything, on the house, for you _and_ for yer date!"

Jim's eyes crinkled up in amusement at the term.

"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock turned to his 'date'. "So, have you decided?"

Moriarty's gaze flickered briefly over the menu. "May I have the _rigatoni al pomodoro e melanzane_, please?"

Angelo looked taken aback by the criminal's perfect Italian accent. "_Sicuramente!_" he responded with a wry grin.

Sherlock glanced at his menu. "Just some Milanese risotto for me, thanks."

"Right away!" Winking again, Angelo turned away, heading back to the kitchen with a spring in his step.

The pair watched him go before turning their attentions back to each other.

"Yes," Sherlock told Jim simply.

Moriarty didn't need to be told twice. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You think it would work?"

"I think it's worth a try," the detective replied.

Jim nodded. "A regular courtship it is, then." With a charming smile, he raised his glass. "Here's to starting anew."

Sherlock raised his, the clear red liquid swirling within like blood as they clinked their glasses together.

Taking another sip, Jim sighed heavily. "So let's say this is our first date."

"Of course," Sherlock played along.

"Let's get to _know_ each other, then!" The criminal widened his eyes, the words rolling mockingly off his tongue.

"I'm a consulting detective at 221B Baker Street," Sherlock began, leaning back. "Only one in the world. I solve crimes because the police are too incompetent to do so."

"And I'm the world's only consulting _criminal_," Jim drawled. "I help vengeful people kill other people because _they're_ too incompetent to do so."

"Have you ever _directly_ killed anyone?" Sherlock interrupted their game, narrowing his eyes.

Jim met his gaze levelly. "Carl Powers was my first, but yes. There were others."

Intrigue stirred within Sherlock. "Care to elaborate?"

Moriarty's jaw stiffened. "My father, for instance."

Sherlock froze, mouth dropping open. Once again, words failed him.

"You can't say he didn't deserve it," Jim hissed. "I should've killed him earlier."

The detective swallowed hard, sucking in a deep breath. "I see," was all he could say.

"Do you really?" Moriarty's eyes flashed with such a sudden burning hatred that Sherlock instinctively flinched back.

_So this is where the psychopath comes from_, he thought to himself, heart racing.

Jim took several deep breaths, hands curling into fists. His dark gaze was distant, reliving the memories – and abruptly, he launched into them.

"I was 18," he began, voice hoarse, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "I'd finished school. They wouldn't let me get into university." He stretched his neck, relaxing taut muscles with a sigh. "So… I left home. Contacted the right people. Submerged myself in the criminal world." A twisted smile. "Soon I had them all dancing around like… _puppets_ on a _string_."

He ran a tongue over his snarling lips, glanced briefly down at his hands. "But one night I went back."

Sherlock waited with baited breath.

"This time I was sure," Moriarty breathed. "I was completely ready."

He glanced upwards, twining his fingers together until their knuckles were white.

"I stood on the doorstep. Rang the bell." A bitter smirk. "It took a while for him to open the door. It was just him and my mother in the house, after all, and _she_ was in no fit state to…" he trailed off.

"I held a bottle of wine in my hands. Gloves on, of course." His voice grew stronger. "His favourite, _Château Léoville Las Cases_, 170 a bottle – he always kept a store stashed in the cellar, but he never touched it. So I had the bottle with me."

A shudder seemed to run through him. "He opened the door and just – _looked_at me… And I offered him the bottle and – and he grabbed it. Then he put it down. And he hit me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as though he'd just been dealt the blow.

"He thumped me across the face and I was on the floor. He stood over me and started yelling at me about how I'd disappeared and left him and my mother sick with worry–" a quick burst of laughter spilled from his mouth. "I took it and I lied and said I was sorry. Then he kicked me out."

Cruelty twitched at the corner of his lips.

"I'd bugged the house beforehand."

The words came in a rush now, enveloped in his deep, soft voice.

"I made it back and sat before the monitor and watched as he downed the lot – that _idiot_. Sat alone in the living room, took a glass, then another, then another." His tone held a note of triumph. "Tetrodotoxin. It took four hours."

His eyes shocked open, haunting euphoria blossoming within their depths.

"The first symptoms took twenty minutes to appear. The numbness at the fingers and tongue, he'd frown a little and carry on. Then the sweating and salivation, the headache – he went to the kitchen to get _paracetamol_–" A mocking giggle. "When he started to tremble he couldn't even make it to bed, just sort of… fell onto the floor." He sucked in a lungful of air, grinning helplessly. "The seizures, the paralysis, and then he started to_asphyxiate_." He shook his head in wonder. "And I could see and hear it all! He was _choking_ to death and he was _panicking_ and clawing at the carpet and _crying_, and nobody could save him but _me_."

His rapture began to fade. He sighed, lowering his gaze.

"Four hours, then he was still. They didn't even find him until next morning."

A short silence fell, filled only with Jim's shallow breaths.

"I watched it time and time again. And only then was I truly happy." His gaze finally met Sherlock's, and the rabid intensity in them dimmed. "Can you blame me?"

And Angelo chose the precise moment to lower the plates of pasta onto the table.

"Enjoy!" he bellowed, obliviously beaming at the pair before leaning quickly over to Sherlock and audibly stage-whispering, "He's a hot one – you can come here for more dates any time!"

"Thank you," Sherlock's lips automatically responded, while his mind still spun with the tale he'd been told.

_He's insane_, it whispered with a stab of fear. _Did you_see_the way he was talking about this – a_murder_he'd committed?! He's an absolute psychopath!_

_No!_ his smitten side immediately responded. _It's only the memory of his father that drives him mad. You can't blame him!_

"Well, this is hardly date-worthy conversation, is it?" Jim's eyes had brightened, the easy smile returning to his lips. He seemed to have snapped completely out of his reverie. "Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about _us_."

_Completely demented,_ Sherlock's brain muttered.

"Um…" The detective tried to clear his head of the disturbing tale, and concentrate instead on the 'date'. It wasn't exactly working.

"Ask me anything." Jim spread his hands. "_Anything._"

Sherlock swallowed. "Well, how long have you known about me?"

"Before Carl Powers, believe it or not." A fond grin. "Another prodigy my age – and with such a wonderful name, too! It's why I kept Carl's shoes: to see if you'd notice." Tenderness filled his tone. "And you did."

"Why did you wait so long though?" _I was eleven when the Carl Powers case hit the news._"That's over 25 years for us to even meet."

"Doesn't mean I didn't have an eye on you." Jim shrugged. "I knew I'd get bored with all the ordinary people, eventually, so I saved you up until I was on the brink of suicide." He laughed softly. "And you'd elected to be a _detective_ and all! You were what I'd been waiting for all my life."

A bizarre sense of pride stirred within Sherlock at those words.

"You loved our little dance, too." The criminal gave him a knowing, appraising glance. "I made sure my name was spinning around your head before we even met."

_Moriarty_. Even back then, the name had held so many promises.

_And even back then, you considered him a psychopath._

Swallowing, Sherlock looked down at his untouched plate. "Are you actually hungry?"

"Nope!" Jim chirped, looking unperturbed by the change of topic.

"Wouldn't it be better to just take these home and eat them tomorrow?" the detective suggested.

Jim nodded in agreement, so Sherlock quickly caught Angelo's eye and waved him over.

"We thought it might be better to save these for another time," he explained with a quick smile. "Could we please take them home?"

"_Perché no!_" the man exclaimed merrily. "I'll put them in a bag right now."

He whisked the plates off the table and hummed to himself as he strode off.

"So that was a productive first date!" Jim joked, getting to his feet.

A chill still ran down Sherlock's spine as he remembered Moriarty's description of the poisoning. _He's still an unstable man_, his mind warned him as he stood and grabbed his coat. _Be careful._

"This is usually the point where you kiss me," the criminal informed him.

Sherlock blinked. "Oh?"

"Yes." Jim looked expectantly at him. "Well?"

And despite everything, Sherlock still felt a little thrill, his heart rate speeding up a little. He took a step closer.

"I would with pleasure, but–" He glanced quickly around. "We're in public."

"And this is 21st century London," Jim countered. "Go on."

So the detective leaned over and crushed their lips together, Jim's hands on his wrists as he grasped the man's jawline, still enjoying the rush the French kissing gave him.

They dared not continue for too long, however, and broke apart to find Angelo grinning at them with a plastic bag in his hand.

Wordlessly, Sherlock accepted it, bowing his head in thanks.

"On the house, Sherlock!" Angelo reminded him, before flashing him yet another wink. "Well, good luck, you two! You're welcome back _any_ time."

And with that they were ushered out the door into the cold night air.

Cars whizzed past. Sherlock scanned the traffic for a taxi.

"We should do that again sometime!" Jim said loudly over the noise.

_Preferably without the graphic depictions of patricide,_ Sherlock thought to himself – but his musing was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve.

It was a young man, his face hidden behind large sunglasses, a hood covering his head. He held a map in his hand. "Sorry, sir, but I'm looking for this Tube station." He pointed at a point on the map. "Which direction is it in?"

Something was out of place, but Sherlock couldn't say what. He glanced quickly around him, then gestured to one of the roads. "Go up there and–"

His speech was cut off as he felt something sink into his neck.

Panic flared within him but was quickly dimmed as men suddenly surrounded him. The pain ebbed away as all sensation began to cease, the drugs he'd just been injected with kicking into his bloodstream, leaving his thoughts and movements groggy and unresponsive. He tried to flail desperately about but hands were pinning his arms to his sides, another one clamped around his mouth preventing him from crying out. A car stopped by the side of the road and its back door swung open, the hands shoving him roughly towards and into it. Sherlock forced his eyelids open to search frantically for Jim but the criminal was nowhere to be seen – something he was both immensely terrified about and grateful for. His struggling was futile; he was helpless; he was trapped. He wanted to scream but couldn't and the fear built up within him, tearing at his weakening mind –

_Help me, somebody help me–!_

But with a final shudder his body gave up – and the last thing he saw was the face of the driver turned towards him.

With a final jolt of shock, he recognised it.

_Sebastian Moran_.

Then the darkness consumed him, and everything went black.


	13. Chapter 14

_Pain._

A blinding, white, searing pain that hammered at each and every one of his senses.

Sherlock blinked hard, his eyelids still heavy, grimacing at the agony that pounded at every muscle in his body. His mind spun, and a wave of nausea came over him as he tried to lift his head.

A groan built up in his throat but remained trapped there as it failed to reach his lips – which he suddenly realised were sealed by force, a strip of what felt like masking tape gagging him.

With growing dread, he tried to move his arms – and felt a lurch of horror as he realised that both his wrists were bound tightly behind him. The same went for his ankles.

Panic rose now, blinding, sudden and terrifying, and he began to flail against his bindings, tugging desperately against them despite knowing it was futile – he was trapped. He was well and truly caught, ensnared like a fly in a spider's web.

And then he heard the laughter.

It was low and hushed, thrumming from behind him, silently roaring in its sheer _mockery _of him. Tears stung in his eyes at the sound.

"So you're awake."

The voice was surprisingly mild; effeminate, almost, with a nondescript London accent. It was vaguely familiar, and Sherlock felt a distinct sense of disgust as he recalled the speaker: Sebastian Moran.

Moran's command was curt. "Ungag him."

Without warning, Sherlock felt rough hands – not Moran's – grab him from behind, and a bright flare of pain as the masking tape was ripped off his face. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in his mouth as the skin of his lips was torn off with it.

He gasped at the sharpness of the pain and sucked in a huge lungful of air. His rasping was cut off by his captor speaking.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian remarked, sounding bored.

The detective remained silent.

"ANSWER when the Boss speaks to you," Moran's henchman grunted behind him.

It hurt to talk, but Sherlock knew better than to defy him. "Sebastian… Moran… I assume."

He heard the click of someone's fingers, and a man walked around him into view. He was heavily built, his brown skin hinting at partly Jamaican descent; his head was clean-shaven and his small ebony eyes glared menacingly at Sherlock. His mouth curved downwards into a disapproving sneer. The detective recognised him at once: this was Ward, ex-member of Moriarty's network. Jim had shown him a picture of him on his phone.

The memory sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. _Jim… where is he?!_

Ward glanced over his captive's shoulder at Moran, who clearly gestured at him to wait; for the man's hands curled into fists, but his arms remained crossed.

"This is a surprise for both of us," Moran exclaimed lightly. His voice was crisp and clear. "Sherlock Holmes. Tell me…" A small sigh. "How _do_ you know my name?"

Sherlock's mind cursed itself for having given the knowledge away. He met Ward's glare with withering contempt of his own, and pointedly ignored the question: "Where am I?"

At a signal from Moran, Ward swung his fist and thumped Sherlock in the face. Lights flashed; the detective reeled back, gasping, agony throbbing in his head.

"Let's set things straight," Sebastian snarled. "_I_ have the power here. _You_ do not. If you don't answer my questions…"

The unspoken threat hung heavily in the air. Ward smirked gloatingly, flexing his arm muscles, and Moran chuckled. "Is that understood?"

Sherlock kept his bleeding lips sealed shut, but his mind already scrambled for the excuses he would soon need.

"Now." Moran spoke slowly, mockingly, as though to a small child. "How do you know who I am?"

"Mycroft told me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Louder!" Sebastian snapped.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Mycroft told me," he repeated more clearly. "My – my brother. After incarcerating Alexander, he warned me about you–"

"DON'T you talk about my brother!" Moran roared, and Ward bashed Sherlock on the other side of his face. Pain shot upwards to crash within his head, pulsing a dull, muddy red; lights dazzled him for a moment.

"Sorry," he forced himself to whisper, tears trailing down his cheeks.

"In answer to _your_ question," Moran began calmly, "I was merely wondering what on Earth you could be doing in the company of…" Malice dripped from his next words. "_James Moriarty._"

His abrupt changes in manner – even from just his voice – disconcerted Sherlock… and reminded him of someone. _It's a trait he must have picked up from Jim_, he realised. _Hardly surprising, considering how long they must've been together._

And yet there was something about Moriarty that made Moran seem almost… _tame_ in comparison.

Sebastian lacked Jim's extremities – his genius, his dominance, his careful passion. Sherlock had been confronted with all of Moriarty's might… and had ended up becoming his lover.

In the end, Moran would be more than enough for him to handle.

He scanned his surroundings. They were well furnished, but the foundations themselves appeared to be of humble origin, and the room was cramped. _This must be one of London's poorer areas._ An idea of where he was began to form in his mind.

Realising Ward was glaring pointedly at him, he pushed away his speculations and concentrated on Moran's question.

"Moriarty contacted me," he lied hastily.

"Oh _really_ now?" Sebastian hissed. "When?"

"He contacted me yesterday," Sherlock elaborated, the false tale spinning into shape before his mind's eye. "He reminded me he was alive, and insisted we meet again. Of course I wanted nothing to do with him, but he… he…" He swallowed. "He said he'd find a way to hurt John."

"Ah, yes! _John_," Moran remarked, with obvious spite. "Jim did mention him, once. Or twice. Or _every day_."

"What did he say?" Sherlock slipped a note of panic into his voice for credibility.

"Oh, it was always about _you_," Sebastian spat mockingly. "Even in _bed_, for fuck's sake, he was always talking about you. How he'd 'destroy' you and make you 'a work of art'. And how this 'John Watson' was always in the way."

"In… _bed?_" the detective gasped, feigning ignorance.

"Of course. We were _partners_."

"_Partners?_" Sherlock forced a disbelieving laugh. "Moriarty had a _partner?_"

"More like a _pet_." Even Ward winced at the sheer bitterness in Moran's tone. "It was all about the sex. I was smitten and he never really cared. It was all about _you!_"

Interpreting Sebastian's hatred as a cue to lash out, Ward raised his fist–

"No, wait." A brief silence followed as Ward lowered his arm; Moran seemed to be calming down. "This isn't about _me_, Sherlock Holmes. Tell me _exactly_ what you were doing at the restaurant with Jim."

"Talking! Nothing else!" Sherlock invented quickly. His wrists were ridiculously sore, he realised, but he'd been through far worse. "He arranged a time and a place, so I… I met him at Angelo's, at seven. It was… it was still a shock, of course." He nodded slightly to himself. "I'd spent almost three years hoping he was dead, and yet… here he was…"

"Didn't it cross your mind to capture him? To get help from the police, or your _brother?_" Moran asked scathingly.

"He said – he told me that if I tried anything, his network would hurt John." Sherlock made his voice weak and pleading. "He said he had a secret recall code, and… and…"

"He was _bluffing!_" Sebastian laughed. "_I_ control his 'network' now. He has _no power_."

"I… I didn't know." Sherlock grasped at a sudden opportunity – and although it sickened him, forced hope into his tone. "Where is he – have _you_ captured him?"

A frustrated sigh. "He's too good, that bastard. He escaped."

"Shit," Sherlock murmured, while brimming with inner elation. _Jim escaped – he got away – he's safe…!_

"What _exactly_ did he say?" Moran demanded through gritted teeth. Ward stood up straighter. "And _don't_ make me ask twice."

"His usual nonsense," the detective muttered vaguely. "Gloating about – about how he'd faked his death, and how he'd convinced me he was dead, too. And… he said… he said…" He tried to think of something convincing. "He said he'd 'ruin' me again, but – for real this time. Inch by inch. Starting with… John."

Silence greeted his words. He waited with bated breath.

_God, I hope he believes me…_

Sweat stuck his hair heavily to his brow and plastered his clothes against his body. His breaths were shallow, his eyes swollen with old tears; his head still rang painfully at the concussions he'd been given. The bindings dug into his wrists and bit into his ankles, crusted with blood, more of which lay hot and metallic among his sore lips. He was weak. He was weak, and helpless, and despite Moran's mental inferiority, one false move could still spell his end.

Ward shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flickering darkly between his captive and his boss. His hands could snap Sherlock's neck with ease – and, judging by his brutish smirk, he would be all too willing to do so.

"What is he to you?" Sebastian asked at last.

Sherlock blinked at the question. "Moriarty, you mean?"

"No, _the Queen_," Moran snapped sarcastically.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pursed his lips.

_My client, my flatmate, my lover._

"My arch-enemy," he said aloud.

A short, impatient huff behind him. "And were he at your mercy, what would you do?"

_Kill him_, he was about to lie, but stopped himself.

That would seem too excessive – that would make it clear that he was just playing along with Moran's demands. He needed something more realistic. Something he would have said before his and Jim's… _connection_.

"I would… call my brother," he explained slowly, "and ensure Moriarty's immediate death at his instruction."

Another silence stretched out. Sherlock closed his eyes. _Please let that convince him. For god's sake, get me out of here._

And Sebastian stepped forward.

Sherlock craned his neck to see him, sending lances of pain down his spine. Moran was dressed in a simple grey shirt, stretched tightly over ridiculously well-defined muscles. He looked just like Sherlock remembered: fine, angular features; lanky, light brown hair; creamy white skin. His sunken, weary brown eyes scanned his captive's face searchingly, trying to determine whether he spoke the truth. Sherlock met his gaze unfalteringly.

"So you're… against him too?" the detective whispered, as an extra touch.

Moran's lips curled upwards into a sneer. "I will _kill_ him," he breathed, a murderous smile sneaking onto his face. "I promise you, I will _end_ him if it's the last thing I do."

For a horrible moment, Sherlock almost believed him.

"Then – then let me _help_ you," he forced himself to say, struggling against his bindings to lean towards his captor. "Moriarty will come back to me – I know he will. He's obsessed."

"_Infatuated_, for fuck's sake," Moran growled.

"Exactly. And – and–" He gasped as though a brilliant idea has struck him. "I'll pretend I don't know he's bluffing – I'll pretend I still think he has power. I'll make him think he's manipulating me – and I'll contact you!"

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Why contact me, and not your brother?"

He was testing him – but an answer sprung to Sherlock's mind.

"Because I know you'll make him suffer first."

A brief expression of surprise flitted across Moran's features; he drew back sharply… then seemed to nod to himself.

Relief flooded through Sherlock. _Perfect – that's convinced him. Thank god…_

"We can lay a trap for him. Together," he persisted, before Sebastian could change his mind. "He'd never _dream_ I'd help you. He'll fall for it – hook, line and sinker."

Moran was deep in thought. He observed his captive, calculatingly, before allowing himself to utter the words – "It could work."

A completely genuine smile split across Sherlock's aching face.

His captor turned to Ward. "Free him."

Ward gaped at his boss. "What? But–"

"Are you disagreeing with me?" Moran cut him off sharply, with a glare as cold as ice.

Shaking his head furiously, Ward moved stiffly, digging a switchblade out of his pocket. He advanced towards Sherlock, flashing him another glare for good measure.

Sherlock did his best to remain completely still as the henchman dug the knife into the bindings, sawing against them; with a snap, his right wrist broke free, and he instantly snatched it to his chest. With the release of his left he clasped them together, rubbing against the sore spots the binds had made with obvious relief.

When at last even his ankles were free, he stood shakily, only to collapse straight back into his chair with a groan. Moran looked down at him condescendingly… and stretched out his hand towards Ward.

It took the man only a moment to understand what he meant.

With another small smirk, he dropped the switchblade into Sebastian's open palm.

Fear flickered within Sherlock's chest.

Moran stood over him, a faint smile on his lips. Suddenly he snatched the detective's left wrist in a vice-like grip, tugging at it to expose the soft flesh of the underside of his arm.

"I'll need to guarantee your loyalty," Sebastian exclaimed calmly, while Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. "I need you to know exactly what would happen were you to defy me."

And with that, he raised the knife.

"Keep still," he ordered, with another sadistic smile.

Sherlock's pulse was erratic, and he felt an awful sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the blade's point lower slowly towards his skin – but he forced himself to stay still.

_You have to do this_, he told himself shakily. _Do it for freedom. For your life. For Jim._

He winced as the point dug into his skin and a slow hiss seeped from his lips at the sharp pain it brought. A trail of blood followed the route Moran carved, welling up and trickling slowly down his arm. The wound stung terribly and he fought against the urge to yank his hand away, knowing that he _had_ to do this. He closed his eyes tightly and pushed away the agony.

At last it came to an end, and his eyes cracked back open. Moran stood with his back to him, polishing the knife with his shirt. Sherlock grimaced at the blood dripping from his arm, and his other hand sprung up to apply pressure – but not before he saw what Sebastian had carved into him.

_SM._

Sebastian Moran.

"Let that remind you," his captor sighed, "whenever you feel like double-crossing me."

Sherlock's arm was throbbing, but the cut wasn't too deep – the blood flow was already beginning to ebb. The stinging pain, however, would remain for some time.

"Give me your phone," Moran then demanded.

Cringing at the jolts it sent along his arm, Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out his phone. Wiping the surface with his thumb, he grudgingly unlocked it before holding it out for Sebastian to take.

Moran whipped out his own phone and, after silently tapping at Sherlock's for a while, turned back to his own – evidently copying down the detective's number.

_Jim would've been able to memorise it,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

"I will call you once a day," Sebastian informed him, handing him back his phone, "and you _will_ answer everything I ask. This is a difficult operation, and I need complete and utter trust in everyone involved." A pause. "Otherwise…"

Ward grinned.

"I understand," Sherlock acknowledged obsequiously. He stood up again, slowly, leaning against the chair for support while tucking his phone back into his pocket. "And I'll contact you the moment Moriarty gets back in touch with me."

"Of course," Moran responded sharply.

A brief silence passed as they watched each other warily – then the sniper stretched out a hand.

"I look forward to working with you, _Sherlock Holmes_," he remarked with a sly smirk.

Sherlock shook the man's rough hand with an equally false smile.

At a gesture from Moran, Ward picked up a long black scarf and walked over to Sherlock. After giving him an appraising glance, he prodded the detective's shoulder, spinning him around – and quickly clamped the makeshift blindfold over his eyes.

It worked perfectly: Sherlock was completely blinded, and stumbled a little as the henchman gave him another unnecessary shove.

"Enough, Ward," Sebastian ordered. "Take him back. Baker Street, 221B, was it?"

"Yes, sir," Ward growled, pressing a hand into Sherlock's back to lead him forwards.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," Moran called after his retreating figure with a final laugh.

Sherlock smiled a little as he took the labouring steps.

Jim had told him the same, once.

Ward suddenly halted and released him, almost making him topple to the ground if it weren't for the wall he now found in front of him. Sure enough, he heard the _click_ of a lock, and the soft _crack_ of a door opening, before Ward clamped his hands back down on his shoulders and shoved him forwards again.

Sucking in a lungful of the fresh outside air, Sherlock relaxed, allowing himself a shuddering sigh of sheer relief.

_Oh, god, I made it out of there…_

Ward led him onward, doubtless to a car waiting to deposit him at his flat.

_Back to Baker Street._

The turn of events had been… terrifying, and painful, yet… interesting. _Now Moran thinks I'm in his employ._ The wound on his arm burned; co-operation would be a difficult ruse to keep up. Yet now, having met his new enemy, Sherlock felt certain he could handle him.

_And besides, Jim's on my side._

At the thought of the consulting criminal, his heart sped up a little. _How is he now?_ he wondered, and felt a pang of sympathy. _I bet he's worried._

He heard the squealing of a car's tyres, and let a satisfied grin sweep across his face.

_But he needn't be. I'll be home soon._

[9]


End file.
